iillU 




Class ^^:^i£d3 

Book_ ^.y^ s-f^ c 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




-_^^l^jlj^. 



POEMS 



BY 



WILLIAM M. BYRAM 




BOSTON 
RICHARD G. BADGER 

The Gorham Press 
1904 



Copyright 1904 by W. M. Byram 
All Rights Reserved 



UGHARYof CONGfiESS 
Two Copies Rccaiveu 

NOV 7 1904 

Copyrigni entry 



CLASS A XXc. No: 

tcfc u-o 

COPY d. 



Printed at 

THE GORHAM PRESS 

Boston, U. S. A. 



To "One Woman" whom the author has never 
met he dedicates this book in the hope and belief that 
the Providence will guide aright Earth's wanderers 
and finally cause her to: 

**Stay for him there! — he will not fail 
To meet her in that hollow vale." 

THE AUTHOR. 



INDEX. 

Page, 
Shadows — or The Last Man — (an echo of 

Poe) 9 

Music 13 

The Canadian Woods 14 

The Final Scene 15 

The Wreck of the La Bourgone 17 

Eros 21 

Lalage and Politian 22 

Darkness and Light 22 

The Passing Pioneer 24 

One Woman 26 

Autumn's Old, Old Lesson 28 

Sonnet To Poe 30 

Hope 30 

The Dying Cuban Soldier 31 

Two Conquerors 40 

Deaths Shadow ..,,,. 41 

The Volunteer and the Two Voices 41 

Nature 44 

5 



INDEX 

Page. 

Verses to a Friend 45 

The Flood of Dreams 45 

Friendship 48 

Fancy as an Imitation of Immortality 48 

Finis 48 

The Missouri River Flood 50 

Memories 51 

Disconsolate 52 

Rossini 52 

A Difference 53 

Diligence 53 

The Indian Return 54 

The Hunter 57 

Then and Now 58 

Miss Virginia Byron 59 

Mary 62 

The Japs and the Bear 63 

Uncle Bobby 64 

No Round Trip Tickets 67 

"Seein" Christmas "Things" 67 

Life's Handicaps 68 

6 



INDEX 

Page. 

Rural Practice 71 

Emotional and Motional Poetry 72 

Pleasures of Rural Life 73 

The Question 75 

The 'Boozer's' Health 76 

Bill Jones On Music 77 

Ray County, Missouri 80 

The Mad Hermit 81 

Adversity g6 

A Dream — A Dramatic Poem 96 

Three Things 105 

Where Is She? 106 

Ploneymooning 109 



SHADOWS— OR THE LAST MAN 
(An echo of Poe) 

In fancy's wood Earth's last man stood, 

As in the lonely West 
The summer sun, his last course run, 

Sank o'er the ocean's breast. 
Three abstract isles do Time beguile 

On Life's great troubled sea: — 
Not one but knows — as friends, or foes — 

Hope, Fancy, Memory. 
To Fancy's reign surcease from pain 

Invites the wanderer; 
For bond and free and thee and me 

Full many visions are. 
For o'er her land there flits a band 

Of unseen minstrels gay; 
Who, by her hand do power command 

To sing despair away. 
The waves that plash, — Youth's sunlights flash, 

Upon her gorgeous shore. 
Are old Time's river; that magic giver 

Of dreams of things no more. 
Let's crave the power perchance an hour 

To float upon her wave, 
Whose scenery, so wild and free. 

The hearts of men enslave. 
In this weird wood Earth's last man stood — 

In fancy's lonely west — 
While dipped the sun, his last course run. 

Into the dead sea's breast. 
It was a spot not soon forgot 

That he there looked upon. 
It seemed a place where one might face 

The shades of mortals gone. 
It was a home where once did roam 



The gayest of the gay — 
Where, free from harm, fresh Beauty's charm 

Chased every cloud away. 
But now a change, most sad and strange, 

Was wrought by days entombed ; 
And naught remained by time unchanged 

That other days had bloomed. 
There frowning down with awful crown 

Grim Silence reigns in awe: — 
Ghost of the Past, she is the last 

To rule in Nature's law. 
Tall windows there, now bleak and bare, 

Turn red-lit shadows back; 
Most strangely bleared and wildly weird 

Upon the sun's red track. 
Those lights, now bare, return a glare 

So sad and motionless. 
That with a start they chill the heart 

With utmost loneliness. 
A dismal lake that no winds shake 

Lay sleeping close beside, 
Above whose breast now lulled to rest 

Did many lovers glide. 
Through death-like silence tolls a bell — 

Through fancy only ringing — 
Which seems to swell a distant knell 

For Time's fleet, onward winging. 
For over all is spread a pall 

Of gloom most dark and dread, 
That seems to call in vain for all 

The things that now are dead. 
All sound of life — of Earth's vain strife 

Is here no more! — no more! — 
No song of peace nor sin's surcease 

Nor evil battle's roar. 
Through all the girth of worn old Earth, 

No heart of field or bower, 

lo 



Shall more respond to e'en such bond 

As Love's or Music's power. 
Tall grasses wave about this grave — 

Now wild, uncut and tangled: — 
About this tomb of Pleasures bloom 

Where Youth and Beauty wrangled. 
Elm shades are thrown athwart the lawn 

So lonely — long deserted — 
Where, by Time's river's distant tide, 

Gay Youth with Time has flirted. 
From many a throat the Night-hawk's note 

Now fills the wood before him; 
The Whippoorwill, loud, sad and shrill. 

Right in the Maples o'er him. 
Like some wild dream, a sluggish stream. 

Where tall slough grasses grow. 
Thrills and rebounds with reptile sounds 

And melancholy echo. 
Here visions strange of mist and change 

About this place do dwell; 
Where other days, of song and praise, 

Were lived and loved so well. 
About the dome of every home 

Where once flew banners gay, 
The owl has come in peace to roam 

Above that home's decay. 
Close over all is spread a pall 

Of gloom most dark and dread, 
That seems to call, in vain, for all 

The things that now are dead. 
The man thus stood in Fancy's wood 

And viewed the sun sink o'er — 
Saw his red beams — his last faint gleams 

Fall on Earth's scenes of yore. 
And such a scene has ever been 

A part that all must heir: — 
A morning's bloom, then even's doom — 

II 



Then ashes mingle there. 
It may be meet in scenes concrete 

Thus abstract youth to draw; 
By times decay thus swept away, 

As youth in nature's law. 
Vague shadows all we ofttimes call 

Weird yearnings, wild and free, 
For all men know perchance forego 

Man's immortality. 
For all time man turns back to scan 

Life's ever browning page — 
In dreams of youth he views in truth 

The sole true "golden age." 
Men curse and weep because comes Sleep 

To wrap their lives in shadow, 
And live from birth for only Earth 

And know not '*E1 Dorado." 
When Caesar's dust be scattered must. 

As mighty poets say, 
Then what care we Eternity ? — 

Who are but lesser clay ? 
Then care not we whate'er may be 

Of mysteries dark and deep — 
What winds may blow or billows flow, 

Adown the Future's sweep? 
Yet sages rare, to men declare 

That all things Shadows are, 
Then hope may be for thee and me 

Across the Harbor Bar. 
This doth Hope bring to clip Time's wing 

And make of Death a Shadow 
That has no string. Hail Inca's spring! 

Hail, source of El Dorado! 
Let's take our trust from things of dust 

And look aloft to Shadow — 
In time of need, with phantom speed 

Shall dawn our "El Dorado." 



12 



For o'er that land, o'er Shadow's land 

Of winged minstrels gay, 
There flits a band who tones command 

To sing Earth's past away. 
Then let the Past sleep long and fast. 

No evil tide betake him, 
Till Time outworn, a Voice is borne ; — 

"Go wake him — now wake him." 
'Twas thus he stood. Earth's last man stood 

In Fancy's lonely West — 
While dipped the sun, his last course run, 

Beyond the dead sea's breast. 

MUSIC 

Thou art the Spirit's instrument, — 
From God the gift is given. 

Thy tones are born, not of the Earth, 
But born high up in Heaven. 

When worn by paltry care and strife 
We fly to Music's refuge: — 
To Heaven's golden token ; 

Praise God the chain of hope and life 
Is evermore unbroken. 

It is His will to grant to us 
Thy boon from mercy ever: — 

Our chain to Heaven while on the Earth 
Does not completely sever. 

When worn by paltry care and strife 
We fly to Music's refuge: — 
To Heaven's golden token; 

Praise God the chain of hope and life 
Is ever more unbroken. 

This joy is left for us who dwell 
In misery's earthly fold, 

13 



To hold exalted converse with 

Our kinsmen high of old. 
When worn by paltry care and strife 

We fly to Music's refuge : — 

To Heaven's golden token; 
Praise God the chain of hope and life 

Is ever more unbroken. 

Thy tones are those which on the streets 

Of that far-off, high City, 
Must thrill the souls of all who reach 

Those far-off gates, through pity. 
When worn by paltry care and strife 

We fly to Music's refuge: — 

To Heaven's golden token; 
Praise God the chain of hope and life 

Is ever more unbroken. 

THE CANADIAN WOODS 

Far in the dark, deep, silent northern woods,- 
Far, far from all the sickly haunts of men; — 
Here Nature reigns untouched by puny hands 
And Time scars not the noble scenery! 
Here river, lake and mountain all combine 
With shadowy woods that centuries bow not, 
To perfect God's sublimest handiwork. 
O clouds that sever on the mountain crests 
Divided by the white, eternal snows, — 
O winds that dally through the pine-tree tops,- 
You know no nobler, grander land than this ! 

Fair land of sleep and dreams and peace. 
Thy mounts and vales do sweep so far, 
Well may thy guide be thy lone star ! — 
The grand repose that thou dost keep 
Seems like a thousand years of sleep 

14 



Of some vast sun, in God^s great might 
To wake again to life and light. 

The peaceful beauty of each lake, 
On whose fair breast the shadows shake. 
Must haunt the wanderer, through far days 
Of winter snows or tropic rays. 

Arcadia — Columbialand — 
Whose sombre beauty is so grand — 
My soul of thee a home would make 
My last long spirit-rest to take. 

THE FINAL SCENE 

When the curtain rings up for the last scene 

Of Earth's weird tragedy. 
Oh who are the watchers before that screen 

Destined by Fate to be? 
Shall Earth's great time-worn stage be dark that 
night 

And only spectres play — 
Or, shall all Heaven's great dome be filled with 
light, 

And sleepers wake that day? 
Shall tramp of mighty millions shake the earth 

And wailing souls give tongue — 
Or shall those sleepers sleep, as ere their birth, 

And silence be far flung, 
And kindly, whispering winds sough o'er the tombs 

Where w^aiting nations sleep. 
And flowers, untrampled, drop their verdant blooms 

Where eyes no more do weep ? 
Shall the sun go down in the lonely west 

As of old days before, 
And myriad worlds dance on old ocean's breast 

As in the nights of yore ? 



Shall, high above the spires of our old home, 

Her beauty far and free, 
Faithful her ancient path so long to roam, 

The moon speed silently? 
Shall thunders rend the planets of all space 

And mighty suns flash out. 
And atoms choke the air and leave no trace 

Of what caused men to doubt? 
Or, shall Earth live once more and all be peace, 

And man not fall again; 
And Eden bloom around the world released 

Forevermore from pain? 
Shall troubled spirits of a million years. 

In bat-winged silence sweep 
Around the world, enchained by hopes and fears 

For souls that Sin doth keep ; 
Or Fate's dark motto be forever more: 

"The dead can do no wrong;" 
And whispering winds on lonely sea or shore 

Bear never sigh nor song? 
Shall you and I awake that day to come 

To know that midnight scene — 
Or shall profound repose of ashes dumb 

Tell not that we have been ? 
Shall rest and peace greet all, when time at last 

Of penance, is outrun ; 
And truth, enigma of the ages past. 

Be known when time is done ? 



THE WRECK OF THE LA BOURGONE 

While strains of southern music play, 
And flowers by friends are thrown, 

A great ship steams from France away; — 
Farewell brave La Bourgone! 



i6 



Great ship that breasted every gale 
For years wide o'er the sea, 

What fear should'st know of storm or sail, 
Or dream of destiny? 

The grace and beauty of a land 

For ages famed for these, 
A mirthful, thoughtless, happy band 

Drift o'er the quiet seas. 

Through glorious nights beneath the stars 
These youthful lovers rove; 

O'er trembling worlds and shadowed bars. 
With Heaven's vast dome above. 

But shade of Death about that ship 

Keeps ever company; 
With all her fleet and bouyant skip 

She's marked by Destiny! 

The night is still ; a death-mist spray 
Creeps o'er the water's breast; 

The ship's dim lights, not far away. 
Are flying toward the west. 

A huge, black shadow drifting by 

As silent as the dead, 
Athwart the steamer's bow doth lie 

With no lights at her head. 

With funnels pouring fire and smoke. 
And light now bright and clear, 

With thunders from her mighty stroke, 
The La Bourgone is here. 

One shriek that echoes 'round the world, 
A shock that shakes the deep; 

17 



And Death's red banners are unfurled 
O'er graves of endless sleep! 

The red flames leap high o'er the mast 

Like Hell's red ensign now; 
To sweep the vessel far and fast 

And send her charred hulk low. 

At dead of night, when peaceful sleep 

Enfolds the boundless wave, 
That shock, heartrending, shakes the deep 

And wakes all for the grave. 

Now beautiful women are nude 

In the flames and the deathmist 

Of this scene with horror imbued. 
Where life can not exist. 

With tresses to the night-winds flung, — 
Fright-mad, with choking breath — 

These fair young hearts with anguish wrung 
Come forth to taste of death. 

Thought's panorama now unfolds 
To all this mighty throng; — 
Life's story now fleet Memory holds 
Till Heaven's great dome is gone. 

While writhe the shapes, before the doom 

Of death of each is sealed, 
All scenes of life from youth's fair bloom 

To death are fast revealed. 

The doomed now view the legion kept 

Within that awful grave — 
The forms for age on ages swept 

Beneath the glassy wave: — 



The mingling ashes there that lie 

'Mid fields of coral reef, 
That nevermore may sing nor sigh: — 

Know never joy nor grief. 

By men forgot, age-rotted bones 

There rocked in calmest sleep 
Of those gone to two mighty domes 

Where none do ever weep. 

How many hearts that love had joined, 

In youth so recently, 
Whose lives, new-born, have been purloined 

By caprice of the sea ? 

Such had not thought when last they pressed 

The lips yet warm at home. 
That they so soon, — so long should rest 

Beneath the ocean's dome. 

Young, jeweled fingers there still clasp 

In last embrace of love; 
The linked skeletons may rasp 

But all is still above. 

Now strange and hideous forms of life 

There noiselessly glide by, 
And little heed in their own strife 

The shapes that grinning lie. 

Unknown, forgot, their timeless sleep — 

Thy prisoned world, O Deep; 
Till that great day w-hen all shall sweep 

From out all Earth's and Ocean's keep! 

They are buried in billows white-foaming; 
Oh could we hear them speak now! 

19 



O Waters unresting on-rolling, 

Great keeper of secrets art thou ! 

The sea's great greed has swallowed all ; 

With one weird, muffled moan, 
The ship goes down beneath her pall; 

Farewell fleet La Bourgone! 

Lone witness is the wild wave here 

Of this night of December. 
Of tragedy so lone and drear 

E'en stone must needs remember! 

How trembled all the deep when sank 
The queen of all the ocean! — 

Four hundred lives the waters drank, 
And then the queen of ocean! 

With strangled groans Death gurgles down 

Earth's fairest chivalry; 
Here sinks brave Youth and Love, the crown 

Of all mortality! 

Into the domes of sea and sky 

Death's couriers bear their prize; 

The soft night-wind goes fleeting by, 
The billows sink and rise. 

The moon and stars look down upon 

The waters trembled bosom. 
As if no father e'er had come 

With loved ones, here to lose them. 

The phosphorescent gleams at night 

Make spectre-like the water 
That rocks the dust, beneath the light. 

Of parent son and daughter. 

20 



The wing of lonely Albatross 

And soft winds of the dawn 

Leave only phantom sounds they toss 
The waves as they go on. 

And now the fog, — the gray death-mist 
That robes the sea at morning, 

Must be to passersby I wist, 
A sad and awful warning. 



EROS 

The oldest theme of bards of ages dead 

Is deathless. As god or goddess, youth or maid : — 
Howe'er mind hath conceived or tongue hath said. 

Love's shadow fills the world in sun and shade. 
Oft-times a joyful gleam lends earthly grace; 

Yet evil foes may haunt Love's sleepless pillow. 
Love holds the heart where'er men go, — to trace 

The sleeping desert or the wind swept billow! 
Dost thou know Love, — where first may we greet 
him? 

Love loves the young, — on the green-sward leap- 
ing. 
Of all Earth's scenes last, where do we meet him? — 

In Sorrow's robes, by the tomb-stone weeping; 
At Time's last call? — into far Heaven stealing, 

Through God's great grace by His altar kneeling. 



21 



LALAGE AND POLITIAN 

When first the mighty sun looked on the world, 

Spotless as snows that fall on Himlas height, 
Men's god, and theme of Asian tongue did whirl, — 

Most perfect of all emblems of God's might. 
Men say his course sublime Time may outrun. 

Though not the sun of Genesis to-day 
Looks on the modern world of wise, weak men, 

A million years may not his life decay. 
When first the flowers of Eden fair Eve did view. 

When first the first of men that garden trod. 
Then skies unclouded, heaven-tinted blue. 

Shown on them vvath the favor of the God. 
Alas! Alas! They lost that high estate! 

Yet love survives through darkness and ill fate. 



DARKNESS AND LIGHT 

Come darkness everlasting! — 

Is my Virginia dead? 
Faith dies by the outcasting 

Of light that Hope has led. 
Life's only star that drew me 

When all I knew was night! 
Now evil foes pursue me — 

I know no more of light. 

All far Heaven's foes are clinging 

To hopes I once could share. 
Death's anguish swiftly bringing — 

I die before Despair. 
Is this life's old, wild story 

That fills the world with pain : 
One brief beam of Earth's glory 

To never dawn again? 

22 



Oh, springtime spent in dreaming 

Of Earth's one flower so fair! 
Now autumn's moon is beaming 

And Death has settled there. 
Come winter frosts — come falling 

Upon life's midnight shore — 
Come doom, howe'er appalling, 

Come Fate forevermore! 

Break, break, earth's rocks and caverns 

Let waters all have way! 
Fall worlds — fall out of Heaven — 

Great suns decay! 
Wake, wake ye hosts now sleeping; 

They say that she is dead ! 
Wake hosts — wake hosts for weeping. 

They say that she is dead ! 

Avaunt! I know the angels 

Are round my loved one's bed. 
She is not dead, but sleeping — 

Who said that she was dead? 
She was a fair young truant, 

Far from her regal home ; 
Who thought that she could stay here — 

Far from her regal home? 

As draws the sun the ocean, 

At sunset in the west. 
My soul, with truth's emotion 

Draws calmly to her rest. 
Her equals in that kingdom 

Be5^ond the sky and sea 
Will know her every virtue 

Through all eternity. 



23 



The insect views the night-worlds 

That light the lonely wood, 
And I thus view my darling's home 

From depths of solitude. 
But Hope has grown courageous, 

And Faith attends the way, — 
I know that she will meet me 

At dawn of life's new day. 

Life's skies again are gorgeous, 

The fleeting gloom has passed; 
Once more the broken circle 

Will be forever fast. 
Her clay is all that's sleeping — 

Who said that she was dead? — 
Her soul is in God's keping — 

Who said that she was dead ? 



THE PASSING PIONEER 

The Pioneer, the Pioneer! — how strange 
And wild his far-off, rugged times appear! 

What thronging memories of days entombed — 
What scenes does fancy fleet and mem'ry dear 

Recall of building of our dear home land ! 

We view the silent forest and the plain 
In death-like calm repose awaiting him — 

The woods and streams and flowered fields 
In infant sleep in mighty Nature's lap; — 

Our poor Red Brother, — Nature's idiot child, — 
A blissful wanderer in Eden bowers. 

Unknowing as the clouds the storms that must 
Assail him. 



24 



Blare loud, ye trumpets, for Time's 

Drama's change! He comes — the "Pale Face" 
from 
The distant East! Let mightiest strains of music 

Thrill the mind for Earth's great drama's 
change : — 
The coming of the bravest one of all 

In all God's image made, the Pioneer! 
Now comes the White Man with the rising sun, 

And brings the dawn of a great nation's day — 
The mightiest, so far, of all the world. 

His work is done — well done — the Pioneer! — 

He goes his way with all that awful throng, — 
Earth's mighty pageant which is called of Time 

To come not back. With his dark brother of 
Primeval days he goes with solemn step 

Into the Unknown Land. The Pioneer 
Is dead. Flee as a bird the noble Spirit 

Wings to the beautiful gates of the City 
Of Shadows. 

Smooth decently the aged locks of gray, 

And close the weary eyes, so tired of waiting. 
Move slowly to the silent, sacred place. 

The poor clay body, now so travelworn. 
And lay it gently in the narrow bed 

Which is the heritage of all Eve's children. 
With heads uncovered do we place it there, 

In that beleaguered city of the dust, 
Where dwell dull night, the worm and silence ever. 



25 



ONE WOMAN 

Her name is surely Porphyrogene, 

And she's the dearest ever! 
Our hearts are bound by Fate's frail skein- 

Oh pray it may not sever! 

Fairest of Eve's countless daughters — 

Here or gone before — 
Heart and art and mind and music 

Has my Isadore ! 

She's as graceful as the bees are 

That among June roses play ; 
And her lips have far more sweetness 

Than those robbers bear away. 

Grecian pen or chisel olden, 

Form like her's could never trace ; — 

Dreamers old, of ages golden. 
Never knew her clime or race. 

Pure her smile is as the lilies' 
Greeting blushes to the dawn ; 

Nobler soul or nobler features 
Surely ne'er the sun shone on. 

She's as deft as April's air is ; — 

Oh, her beauty is supreme! 
And her step is like the fairy's 

Of a summer star-night dream. 

And her voice is sweet as echoes. 

Over mountain far and dell, 
Of some mighty, old cathedral, 

Sounding low her Sabbath bell. 



26 



Summer winds about my lattice 
Tell me of her through the night ; 

Psyche tells me surely that is 

Heaven's and not Earth's delight. 

And the rustling of her gown is 

In my ear e're I awake ; 
E'en the perfume of her hair seems 

More than Helen fair could stake — 

'Gainst the doom of ancient cities 
And the blood of countless men ! 

Oh, the beauty of fair women 
Is as mighty now as then ! 

Oh, her thoughts are with mine ever 
Be it Winter — be it Spring; — 

They've a thousand times the fleetness 
Of the fleet dove's wing. 

What and where Love are you dreaming, 
While the stars above us bend ? 

Dream, oh dream this written token — 
Dream the message thus I send : — 

Dream there lives a humble rover, 

Of the valley and the plain. 
Who would try Excelsior's banner, 

For thee, to the snows again. 

Dream there is an unknown record 

In the blue-domed sky. 
That our lives and fates are mated 

For Eternity. 

Not the mighty clash of battle — 
Not the graveyard's midnight hush 

27 



E'en can thrill men's souls so deeply 
As Love's holy, virgin blush. 

Not Niagara's awful journey, — 

Not the anger of the sea; — 
Not a thing of Earth, O Woman, 

Stand beside the power of thee! 

Starry worlds, that fleck the heavens 
Through the watches of the morn. 

Tell, oh tell me where's the bonny 
Heart for whom this heart was born ! 

Mother Nature — holy giver, — 

Give the hand, ere we depart. 
Of the one whose image ever 

I take with me on my heart. 

AUTUMN'S OLD, OLD LESSON 

When the wood-thrush was a-calling 

To his mate in shaded dell, 
And the evening dews were falling 

On young lovers who loved well. 
Spring was with us in all her glory ; 

And our lives with her have sped ; 
Now she's gone and left Life's story 

And the Autumn leaves are dead. 

'Tis time that thrills the human breast 

When the Autumn winds go by. 
And many loved ones sink to rest 

And all the fair flowers die : — 
For, marriage, birth and death are known 

When the forest mantles red — 
Hopes are born and hopes have flown 

When the Autumn leaves lie dead. 

28 



Flying with the Autumn weather 

Shade of Death goes ceaselessly; 
Since Eden they have moved together — 

Two kingdoms fear this company. 
Some have laid a dark-eyed brother 

Where the leaves drift o'er his bed ; 
Others mourn a gray haired mother 

While the Autumn leaves lie dead. 

Like the transient clouds, that o'er us, 

Float in beauty far and free, 
Knowing not the storms before us, 

Drift we onward to our sea ; 
The same life-fires of Youth are burning 

As in ages that have fled ; 
And our dust to dust is turning 

While the Autumn leaves lie dead. 

As, o'er mountain, lake and river. 

Drift the breezes of the dawn. 
Silent, to the charnel ever. 

All the hosts of Earth are drawn; 
Onward toward the grave we're moving, 

Slowly, softly the hosts tread ; 
Let us be our lives improving 

While the Autumn leaves lie dead. 

Autumn's sombre moon is beaming 

On the graveyard of the rose; 
Winter's winding-sheet a-gleaming 

Soon must wrap the fields in snows ; 
If we err may God forgive us ; 

As, o'er human ways we're led ; 
And some hopes yet linger with us, 

Though the Autumn leaves lie dead. 



29 



TO POE 

O, gifted man as ever heired earth's sod, 

When fifty summer's flowers have decked thy bed 

Our world afar decrees thou art not dead, 

And crowns thee monarch of song's realm, thank 

God! 
How many of Eve's children yet unborn. 
Will praise the God w^ho gave thee to the w^orld ? 
How many fainter hearts thy earthly course forlorn 
Must aid to bear Fate's arrows at them hurled ? 
Some say that thou hast won a withered flower : 
That praises of the dead are little glory. 
Such little know, in their frail minds, the power 
Thy magic "Beauty" had in thy strange story: — 
A dreamland refuge from the world's despair 
Dwelt in thy work that linked far Heaven there. 



HOPE 

Hope's zenith is the crisp, clear morn of life. 

With dauntless mien, Hope comes in raiment rare 
To cheer ambition for the coming strife. 

But ere proud Victory's birth so dear, — 
Life's battle-field unwon — fair Hope has fled; 

Dear ally of the brave, she swoons to earth — 
Youth's armor-bearer of the fight seems dead 

With noble banner now in taters red. 
Yet, Hope survives, and comes a future day. 

Upon the ceaseless, rolling tide of years, 
To clear her gory, glorious stains away 

And guard her evermore from mortal fears 
With banner now o'er realms of Sorrows' sway, 

From Time secure, bright as the sun's mid-day. 



30 



THE DYING CUBAN SOLDIER 

There's an isle in the south 

With a flag unfurled 
That commands the respect and 

The gaze of the world. 

Let's go to red Cuba, 

Maimed queen of the sea, 
Where the south breezes blow- — 

Where the great souls are free. 

There, gray, misty billows 
With strange, muffled roar, 

Wind-swept from old ocean, 
Break on the low shore. 

Go, salt-laden breezes 

Her hot brow to kiss — 
Bear spirits of freedom. 

Of peace and of bliss ! 

How could she resist thee. 

Nor view with emotion, 
Thy glory and freedom, 

O proud, mighty Ocean? 

Like blue seas around them, 

Broad, placid, serene. 
The souls of that island 

Have long known the dream 

Of that right and that goal 

For which nations live — 
That peace, pride and glory 

Only freedom can give. 



31 



O Cuba, sweet sister! 

From thy balmy shore 
Many souls have left thee — 

To know thee no more. 

To thy last death-rattle, 
With sorrow, we turn — 

Perchance, there be morals 
From thee we may learn. 

Then let us, on memory 

And blest fancy call, 
To raise from maimed Cuba 

The dull, smoky pall. 

The last smoke of battle. 
Floats dim, through the sky, 

As a soldier of honor 
Lies waiting — to die. 

The warm breeze of springtime 
Bears, fresh from the flowers, 

The essence of beauty 

From natures soft bowers. 

The sun is fast sinking 

'Neath the western plains — 

Now, gloom robes her sleep o'er 
The day's many pains. 

Now, twilight is casting 
Her shafts o'er that earth 

Where loves happy heart 
Dances lightest in mirth. 

But hark! now the ocean, 
In warlike array, 

32 



Beats on the rock, head-land 
A dirge for the day. 

Look! Yonder red moon is coming 
Adown the low plain — 

O God ! Now she lights up 
That still field of slain. — 

That once sweety verdant field — 
That, now, gory scope — 

Wrests many a hero! 
How many a hope? 

A soldier moves faintly 
On the blood-stained sod 

And whispers; ah whispers 
Appeals to his God ! — 

That Judge of all judges — 
That King of each race, 

Who guides the swift planets 
With safety through space: 

Who has peopled these strange, 
Wand'ring rocks of the sky 

With his souls that never — 
Oh never shall die : — 

Who has built a planet 

Far greater than all. 
To which they ascend, at 

His calm, mighty call. 

Oh, what are the death-thoughts — 

The last to out-flow — 
On earth, from this soldier's 

Soul, now called to go? 

33 



"Is it over — thus early — 
Death — death — mighty God ! 

Shall I, never more, on 
This island-home trod ? 

"Nor know of vict'ry on 

This dear, parent soil 
Where my brothers yet strive 

Through blood and through toil? 

O Death wouldst thou wing me 

In life's early dawn? 
Ere yet, on the foe, be 

My father's sword drawn? 

"Ere the sands of my home 
With blood may be red : — 

Ere skies dark with vultures 
Devouring Spain's dead. 

"Back thief! I defy thee! 

I'll live, and be strong 
When shrill notes of battle 

Shall be echoed along 

"O'er this home of my youth — 

O'er yon unquiet tomb, 
Where my father sleeps not 

Till Spain meets her doom! 

"And more do I live for; 

One other sweet sup — 
Ambition, I love thee 

I'll drink of thy cup. 

"Those day-dreams of boyhood 
Yet linger around 

34 



The weird waste of my soul — 
That dark battle-ground." 

'Twas but for a moment, 

Fond memory shone 
On the life of the soldier 

That has almost gone. 

Now, he sinks, slowly back 
On the red'ning turf — 

On the sands of the home 
That nourished his birth. 

The eyes are glazed over, 

As if that cold sleep 
Has stolen upon him — 

Last vigils to keep. 

Beautiful sentinels! 

They seem to be lost: 
That palace's tenant 

Seems gone from its post. 

Oh where are thy boasts now 
Against Monarch Death, 

That flew on the night, with 
Thy weary, last breath? 

Oh where are those visions 
Of days long entombed — 

Those beautiful visions 

That hope sweetly bloomed? 

Alas that the fairy-like 

Phantoms of youth. 
Fall, slain by the soul-searching 

Arrows of truth. 



35 



The soldier moves faintly ; 

Look ! yet doth remain 
Some last, feeble token 

Of life's earthly reign. 

But hark! doth he mutter 
Once more on the night ? 

Perchance't be a prayer, ere 
That soul takes her flight ! 

"Dreams, dreams! oh the fancies 

Of man and of child 
That flash through the mind in 

This medley so wild. 

"Fast, fast thou art coming 
Death, o'er me to soar ; 

Soon, soon I shall know thee 
To know thee no more. 

"O God! there was beauty 

In life's early dawn; 
Why could I not know that 

Ere night's robes are drawn? 

"Was't ambition, bore me 
To the brink of the fall. 

Where, beyond I see darkness. 
Where, backward see all? 

"Backward — oh backward^ could 

Old memory bring 
The joy of life's springtime 

Without the sad sting! 

"Were such the sweet fate of 
Man's short, feeble reign, 



All could be dreamers, free 
From life's dower of pain. 

"In hearts of all mankind, 
'Though shrouded in dark, 

Of the poet's fair beauty. 
There lingers a spark. 

**Yes, memory, come swiftly — 

I call thee, at last. 
To taunt me of living 

'Till the gates are passed. 

"'Twas sweet, in the dawn of 
The morning's first breath, 

To stroll o'er the earth, with 
No thought of this death. 

"When nature's fair bloom, through 
The forest was spread — 

All scenes of the living — 
No thought on the dead. 

"The clear running brooklet, 
The flowers and the trees — 

All simple, pure pleasures 
Of boyhood were these. 

"And the first days afield. 
With brother and friend, 

There, the joy that nothing 
But spring-time can lend. 

"The village, the school house; 

The books that were read, 
The sweet, happy freedom 

When lessons were said. 



"How strange that the man, with 

His power and his pride 
Is lost for the child, at 

Death's misty, dark tide. 

"These simple, pure pleasures 
Flood my mind, at the last, 

Like breakers of ocean 
From the wildest blast. 

"As the wildest of natures 

Last feasts for the mind, 
Old memory brings me 

Pure childhood blind — 

"Ah, blind to all cares of 

The future's dark sweep, 
And blind to the past, by 

His tomb fast asleep. 

"O death, now thou cometh, 

I go, with the truth — 
That the grandest — purest — 

Of earth is this youth ! 

"Now, at last, I discover 
That bright, living stream — 

That undying fountain — 
That Psychean dream. 

'That, this "fever, called living" whilst 

We roam o'er the earth, 
Is but training the soul 

For that grander birth. 

"That, howe'er late it be. 
The drear, wayward soul 

38 



Contains yet a light that 
May lead to the goal : 

"May banish ambition's 

Cold darksome desire 
For glory — that phantom 

That will ever retire — 

"That phantom that glides o'er 
The earth's verdant brow. 

Oft leaving for glory 
The scars of it now. 

"Thus I, a fall'n soldier 

And now lying low, 
Condemn thee, Ambition, 

Thou source of my woe ! 

"Now, late though it be, I 
Seek a power more high. 

For that only, true glory, 
'Bove the realm of sky. 

"O glory unchanging — 

Born never to die, 
Thou only true glory 

'Bove the dome of sky. 

"Thank God for the lesson, 
Though taught me in death — 

Though borne on the night, with 
My last, fleeting breath. 

"Farewell to this dreaming 
Of life's earthly jo)^ — 

'Tis nothing but seeming — 
Oh why shouldst decoy? 

39 



"A star is somewhere built for me, 

That is a better home; 
Where death or pain can never be, 

Nor sorrows ever come. 

"It is the realm of beauty, 

When our "day's work" is through. 
Where love is all of duty — 

That garden in the blue." 

He drew his cloak tightly 

And sank down to rest. 
With hands meekly folded 

Above the broad breast. 

Serenely he lies there — 

(A calm smile on the face) 

While the soul homeward floats 
To her last resting place. 



TWO CONQUERORS 

Some abstract things invisible are things 

Of greatest power. Two conquerors that sway 

O'er all, — that stealthily encompass all 

Of earth and air and sea and space — 

Depopulate far worlds, and make anew — 

Sylph-like Silence! — incorrigible Time! — 

Queen-mother of the fair Prince, Thought, that 

guards 
Our Princess, Beauty, fairest boon of life, 
Is Silence, and grim Time that walks with her 
Plucks flowers of Life to lay upon her breast. 



40 



DEATH'S SHADOW 

Relentless ocean solitude and gloom ! 
Infinite Shadow of weird Death himself! 

When the doomed wanderer is swallowed up 

Within the rolling surface of the deep, 

He yields to double death, — yields unto death 

That bars forevermore the sight, the tear, — - 

Almost the memory of all mankind. 

The trembling shore turns back the writhing waves. 

No woman's tears fall on the sea-worn sand. 

The flickering beams of the morning sun 

Glance round the body — lone and dead. 

Death guides the evil spirit of the seas in storms — 
Death knows the whole face of the awful sea. 
Weird Silence — Solitude — Oblivion ! 
Infinite, perfect Shadows of Death's self ! 



THE VOLUNTEER AND THE TWO 
VOICES 



I 



Farewell has been said at the old homestead, 
The old mother's heart is breaking. 

A new-made bride kneels by her side, 
But the frail, white hand is shaking. 

The father old, — though patriot bold — 

Is kindly, huskily pleading 
That might is not right — can never be right- 

And a nation is starving and bleeding. 



41 



Through the evening gloom goes manhood's bloom, 
The staff of this circle is out of the gate — 

The master speaks kindly, the steed canters blindly 
Away for the fray in a far-away state. 

The blood of the master surges wilder and faster; 

The light on the hilltop grows dim. 
Two voices alternate to portray his fate — 

Two phantoms now journey with him. 



II (First Voice) 

"I stood by yon home, as the sun went down, — 
As the sun sank into the western wood — 

And there did Silence wear a crown 
And reign supreme where-at I stood. 

"The red-lit windows turn a glare 

From dying sunrays back to me, 
A spirit of gaunt and black Despair 

My lonely greeting seems to be. 

"A picture of sorrow is yon old home 
Where years I have lived in an hour; 

Tomb of dead hopes no more to come 

From the founts that are boyhood's dower. 

"Long echoes from my doorbell's ring 

Grip wild and strange this heart so weary. 

I turn, — my innermost life asting, — 
To search the elm shades so dreary. 

"The moon comes up the eastern hill, 

Her soft, warm rays the landscape sweep; 

She tells the story ; there, cold and still 

Rise the gray, strange stones where they lie asleep. 

42 



"'Tis over! They've left me! I feared they would ! 

It was hard to do yet I knew I could — 
Yes, though I've forsaken my own dear blood, 

I've done my duty as all men should. 

"But it seems this night-wind bears a tone 

Of something I can not forget: — 
Of something I have earlier known 

That seems to say we know thee yet. 

"While I view the elm-shades and moonlight play 
Above the beds where they now stay, 

Is it aught to the world, so wide and gay, 
If I should mix mine with their clay?" 

Ill (Second Voice) 

"The years have gone, the guns are hushed, 

A hostile nation's pride is crushed. 

The ranks of rival foes came back. 

But many remain by the blood-washed track. 

Fair Freedom's flag is now unfurled 

O'er every State of the New World ; 

And we float a message across the seas : 

Our foes are none, our friends are these. 

To the nations afar we send this word ; — 

We inscribe this motto on Freedom's sword : 

Among the records that perchance may be, 

Of the worlds of space, through eternity, 

In other realms, on land or sea, 

Whate'er may be Earth must be free. 

When the nations are mustered on one awful day, 

And the Monarch of monarchs looks on that array, 

Then fearful to witness must be the sad gloom 

Of the God when the tyrant receives a just doom. 

E'en Freedom must quake at the withering fate 

Of her red-handed foes, — she can know not hate." 

43 



IV 

The voices have spoken ; now silence unbroken 
Goes on with the man in the moonlight. 

With heart muffled beating — no thought of retreat- 
ing, 
The soldier rides on through the midnight. 

Please God, may good fortune be part of his portion, 
In this world in life's rugged contest ; 

And at the death-rattle — that fatal last battle, 
We pray Thee that he may then rest. 



NATURE 

The book I ever loved to read 

In Nature's palace lies ; 
I seek not lore by college creed — 

But landscape, mount and skies. 

Men read a page from Homer great 

To know an ancient land ; 
Yet minds of men to elevate 

There is a higher Hand. 

God wrest us from our worldly ways 

Before the fall of night ! 
Keep pure hearts with us through the days 

Of Mammon's growing might! — 

Which, like a million Juggernauts, 
Does crush the world to-day — 

By law and prayer and word and thought 
Heaven check the earth-god's sway! 



44 



Let Peace and Beauty rule the world, — 

Let Nature's glories be 
A pennant clean and pure unfurled 

In homes by every sea. 

VERSES TO A FRIEND 

Won'drous zephyrs of the summer 
Kiss thy young head from the west. 

If they had a way to tell thee, 

They could speak of some less blest. 

They will loiter on but slowly, — 
Touching many won'drous lands; 

Little, wan'dring, idle truants. 
Time makes of them no demands. 

They must learn full many secrets, 
As thro' many climes they wing, 

For they meet all kinds of people 
From the peasant to the king. 

May they, long years hence returning, 
Kissing then a matron's brow. 

Bring thee all the love and pleasure 
Which they leave in passing now. 

THE FLOOD OF DREAMS 

Tossed by the summer's humming birds and bees. 
Sweet odors rise, from off the evening flowers — 
The summer's jewels, worn with grace and ease. 
Winds come from lands afar, o'er dawn-lit seas. 
And bear vague, shrouded mem'ries of the hours — 
The fleeing hours of youth and other days — 
The dead — the buried hours that men must ever 
praise. 

45 



Far scenes and fair come with the even's air; 
And odors rare come on the southern breeze, 
Soul-tokens in great Nature's reveries. 
Sweet winds of heaven that come at eventide 
From lands afar, o'er western waters wide; 
They speak a language that is not of words — 
But wood and stream and singing birds, — 
The spirit converse of the Beautiful — 
The music that must be of other spheres 
Afar from earthly pain and strife and tears. 

Now, save the night-hawk's shieking note of gloom 
The peaceful twilight reigns still as the tomb. 
The conquering shade now o'er retreating day 
Silently spreads her wondrous mantle gray. 
The wind-swept elms, that bowed to summer's sun, 
Stand, proud and calm, aloft and day is done. 

The spell of night palls o'er the human soul — 
Now numbs the world in sleep with silent power — 
The master power of sleep that none control, 
That numbs the world as droop the autumn flowers. 
The magic wand of night now waves mankind 
Into a wondrous trance that softly steals 
Away the will and wisdom of the mind 
And weirdly wild and wondrous scenes reveals. 

Now rocks the brain on mystery's oceantide — 
The world is dead and yet, afar, within 
Fair Fancy's realm do other worlds abide. 
Oh where can mighty waters be where gleams 
The light of other worlds ? The flood of dreams. 

For the disconsolate who mourns, perchance. 
The passing of a wife's and mother's love. 
Dreams' panorama now unfolds to view 
The lost one's better, nobler home above. 

46 



Again he views the scene when youth and maicf 
First dreamed of love within the summer shade;— 
The sports of youth on lawn or meadow's crest, 
The dear far hours on Happy River's breast — 
About that beautiful, far-off, dreamland shore 
Views spirit forms that row with muffled oar. 

Ambition's victims, who have sought in vain 
Praise of the world and garnered only pain, 
When age and evil circumstance at length 
Have shorn the human heart of hope and strength. 
Now drawing near the silent, narrow bed 
Where work must cease and thought be left unsaid 
May find brief solace on these waters dead. 
Where better w^orlds clear through the mists again, 
Where beauty, love and peace forever reign. 

Vast Flood of Dreams ! upon thy magic tide, 

Upon thy lone, calm waters wide, 

Where spectres of men's buried hopes are known, 

That on Youth's wing have long forever flown, 

Where flit the phantom shapes of those long given 

With sad and pleading hearts to earth and Heaven, 

The spectral scenes of thy enchanted sea 

May be faint glimpses of eternity. 

When death uncoils the deathless human soul 

Thy visions vague and dim may prove to be 

Faint visions of that immortality, 

lufinite, far, that is the final goal. 



47 



FRIENDSHIP 

When I slept on the barque Reputation, 

On the bosom of Dreams' rolling river, 
Flitted the phantoms of dull Separation — 

Warning of spring flowers winter may shiver. 
But Psyche rose quickly to banish 

Those grim, mystic spectres of Night, 
And, aiding the dark guests to vanquish, 

Came gently fair Friendship in Light. 

FANCY AS ONE OF THE MANY EVI- 
DENCES OF IMMORTALITY 

O, River of Fancy, that silently flows 
To that limitless ocean of endless repose 

Where are jeweled the Isles of the Blest, 
When the mind is enraptured with visions sublime 
As you wend through the realms of the cycles of 
Time, 

We feel that we know that there is final rest ! 
O, beautiful River, forever and ever 
May angles guard over thy bed; 

And stars ever shiver upon thee fair River, 
To beacon to worlds overhead ! 

FINIS 

Think not of death, 
We know not death, 
We fear not death. 
There is no death ! — 

We slumber on. 

To wake ere long 
In fields of grandest bea' 

Where peace is there 

And garlands fair, 

48 



And love is all of duty. 
We go into that country, the region of surcease, 

Where sin is lost forever, where love is not : 
We step into that garden, that home of rest and peace 
Where Time's unknown forever and deaths for- 
got. 

A magic spell, 
A weird spell, 
A fleeting spell, 
A silent spell, — 
Is all that knells 
The dross that wells 
From out the soul at parting: 
That bids farewell 
To things of hell 
The soul to view upstarting. 
We go into that country, the region of surcease ; 

Where sin is lost forever, where love is not: 
We step into that garden, that home of rest and peace 
Where time's unknown forever and death's forgot. 

'Tis all a dream, 
A simple dream, 
A little dream, 
A swift short dream, — 
That bears us strange 
Through mist and change, 
Till, through the great high Portal, 
We view the morn 
Of clouds now shorn 
Dawn on the Home immortal. 
We go into that country, the region of surcease, 
Where sin is lost forever, where love is not : 
We step into that garden, that home of rest and peace 
Where time's unknown forever and deaths forgot. 



49 



MISSOURI RIVER FLOOD, 1903 

Happy River — Happy River! 

In thy days of rest; — 
Singing songs of peace and beauty 

In thy ruffled breast; — 
Dwellers by thee gazing fondly, 

Fear and trouble free, 
On thy ceaseless march forever 

Onward to the sea. 

Naughty River — naughty River! 

Yielding wondrous scenes, — 
Sailing 'coon-shacks' by the thousand 

Straight to New Orleans. 

Angry River — angry River! 

Fifty years of snow 
You have carried since such anger 

Men did of you know. 

Awful River — awful River! 

May your rage subside 
Ere more sires of weeping children 

Sink within your tide. 

Mighty River — mighty river! 

In full many a breast 
Haunting pictures hang forever 

Of your great unrest. 



50 



MEMORIES 

Softly the murmuring of a summer sea! — 

Plashing a shore that seems unknown to tears ! 

The dusk fades from the light of memory — 

Time's screen rolls back, — far back to other years. 

Now, through the sweet gloom of a summer night, 
The lofty spires reflect the moon's bright beams 

Above a home where, in first love's affright 

A pure, rare soul floats on youth's tide of dreams. 

Again, two shadows float upon the breast 
Of silent, Happy River that flows by; 

And breeze-stirred wildflowers from their summer 
nest 
Whisper of love and beauty ere they die. 

The stars look down serenely on the earth; 

The sweet flower rustlings blend with lover's 
mirth, 
The moonlight shines on dewy meadows' turf, — 

All view the wondrous blush of first love's birth. 

Love has our hearts and all the world is spring! 

Our own live's Eden; — here Earth's fairest spot! 
Beauty and Youth are here and Love is King, 

With Time and all the outer world forgot. 

Dawn's whispering winds bear o'er the ruffled tide 
The wondrous notes of mocking-birds above; — 

The heart beats faster by the maiden's side 

When sweetest throats of woodland sing of love. 

Alas ! alas ! Back on life's varied track 

Some hours of life seem less of earth than Heaven ; 
Life's gleams of immortality come back — 

Faint earthly spirit visions are God given. 

51 



DISCONSOLATE 

He sat within his silent room, 
But Mary's step came not above. 

He questioned wildly of the gloom : 
Did his wife ever love? 

The papers tried him, and the court; — 
He thought he knew how men could lie. 

They found his verdict ill report; — 
He felt he knew how men could die. 

He looked upon a picture there — 
No smile lit up those features fair. 

Love that had borne his soul so free 
Flew on wild wing of misery. 

ROSSINI 

Perchance we say that man is little here : 

In the broad sweep of Time, O mortal man. 

Where is thy power? Woe unto thee, O youth, — 

O dreaming youth who now wouldst rear a throne 

To Fame, ere long to crumble at a breath 

In her reverse as fleeing ages roll ! 

And look we to far Italy? and say — 

O Italy it seems we view thee yet. 

As in the gorgeous splendor of thy youth : — 

Thy halls, thy palaces and towers rise up 

From out the sea, and all thy Romans wake ! 

O Italy, how can'st thou fall, and must 

Thy Romans sleep ? Alas ! 'tis but too true ! 

And though a thousand empires rise more grand ; 

Yet Time, alas ! must bring them low as thou ! 

And then, where stood Earth's greatest monarch's 

round, 
May sport the filthy insects of the rocks ; 

52 



And there be heard the owl's lone nightly cry 
Where sang the proudest minstrels of the Earth. 

And yet, though true, this is not all, for one 
Whose name is here has never died, but dwells 
Afar on some star-world, and he looks down 
And knows the wealth of harmony he gave 
The world is no more dead than his 
Soul-life that is reborn to never die. 

Yes, proud indeed may be Italia 
Of him, her noble son, who gave mankind 
A wealth of harmony more marvelous — 
More lasting than the Coliseum's rock! 
No nobler heritage has that fair land! 
When naught remains of all her glory but 
Her Nature's wondrous skies, his memory 
Must be as timeless, grand and fair as they. 

A DIFFERENCE 

My friend 'tis well we should be proud. 

Yet should we not be vain. 
Fast comes the day when the limp shroud 

Is all we shall retain. 

Yes, vanity, friend, is not well ; 

But strength of spirit given — 
The first a vile thing straight from Hell; 

The last a boon from Heaven. 

DILIGENCE 

In truth it may be said, 

"On this great stage of fools" 

That some come but as if to sit 
Like plasters on their stools. 

53 



Lets pray, good friend, that such of us 
May never thus transpire ; — 

Make diligence our onward theme — 
Our motto be go higher. 



THE INDIAN'S RETURN 

At last, behold thy lovely shore! 

But the thrill is near to madness ; 
As seems to sound thy low, weird roar, 

So intense is the sadness. 

Far back, I view the lofty pines. 

In whose primeval days, 
From round my sleeping father's mines 

Turned back the sun's bright rays. 

Again, behold the rolling plain 

Stretch far into the west. 
But, winds that sweep around the main. 

My sire no more shall breast ! 

I've crossed the wreck-strewn ocean 
With light heart free from dread ; 

Now, none can know my soul's emotion — 
I find my father dead. 

Oh, could I see thee as of old — 

Thy feeble arm once more to take! 

But no! thy poor, frail body cold, 
Lies lifeless by yon lake! 

Oh, could we turn and live again 
In those dead times of olden! — 

Bid long adieu to Mammon's reign — 
To dream in forests golden! 

54 



Ah, though no glory could acquire — 
No brothers e'en would call me great — 

I'd list to Nature's varied lyre 
And wait the patient call of Fate. 

Fair lake, though I've been far from thee, 

And learned of stranger-lore; 
A theme but now thou teachest me 

I've never learned before. 

It seems I view, as in a dream, 

Scenes of those boyhood days, 
Where I dwelt by the crystal stream 

That through the forest strays. 

How swiftly passed the hours away ; 

When idling by that lovely brook ! 
Fair hours of youth ! dear hours of play ! 

On Nature's freedom there to look. 

There oft the maid I loved would stray, — 
Ah, perfect bliss in Nature's art! 

Alas ! life's sun beams not to-day 
For this wrecked, forlorn heart. 

Art could not picture a scene so fair — 
Ne'er with such pleasure thrill the soul. 

So perfect was life's beauty there 
Thoughts came not of the goal. 

Yes, once yon old home where I lived 

Was earthly Heaven to me, 
For dearest boon that life could give 

Was love, lost love, from thee ! 

And, never since life's springtime. 
Have other's charnj;; affected 

55 



The heart that woed thy soul subh'me — 
Ah, first by Death how oft selected? 

That I've loved once, I love forever. 

Mine was the fire that never dies: 
Though formed anew that changes never; 

But flames the light within the skies. 

O Destiny! that sways the rule of empires! 

That caused the torture of this breast, 
Can'st ever quench the burning fires 

That rob my soul of rest? 

Ambitions voice, lost love, hath shivered 

The love of souls that sought the crest of moun- 
tains. 

Yet, oft, borne down times flowing river, 

Thy voice must drow^n the plash of fountains. 

Yet, through life God will bless me, love, 

On Memory's wing to soar — 
Deep in my life to love thee, love. 

And the days entombed of yore. 

And, when the shadowing gloom is cast 

Around the fluttering heart, 
I'll swoon to know the scenes long past, — 

The soul's great wealth they did impart. 



THE HUNTER 

Here's a health to the game, hardy hunter !- 
By river and woodland and lake ; 

Where Nature, in raiment primeval. 
Seems sleeping to nevermore wake. 



56 



His the fresh air and beauty of woodland, 

And the vigor of life at its best ; 
When puny, frail men of the city 

Persue the vocation of rest. 

How dances the heart on the marshland ; 

Where mallards go whistling by, 
And wing the swift teal passing over 

As onward in bunches they fly. 

And the sylph-like snipe of the grasses 
That grow by the edge of the lake; 

How light-like he dodges and passes, 
The shot of the shooter to shake ! 

The 'yellow-leg' snipe, quick as lightning. 
Pass in flocks of an hundred or more. 

Their white bodies flash in the sunlight — 
Now, far o'er the prairie they soar. 

Puffs of smoke leap up from the prairie — 
Boom-boom! sounds the 'double,' at length. 

'Not a feather'! 'He shot far behind them'! 
On they go with redoubled strength. 

Down ! down ! a fine pair of mallards 
Are winging right straight overhead ! 

A double, a splash in the water, 

And the green-headed leader is dead. 

High above comes a big flock of 'honkers'. 

In lines like a great letter V. 
Do they pause for a look at the marshes ? 

To the North ! to the North ! No sir-e-e ! 

Down! a fine flock of 'redheads' are coming 
Like blazes low down to the right. 

57 



With bent wings they now skim the water, 
As winds of the morning as light. 

They circle, — now back to the hunter! 

He almost can see their wild eyes. 
A shot, and the air's 'full of feathers,' 

And a drake in the thick rushes lies. 

Down ! some Canada geese coming loudly ! 

A-bunch now, — they want to alight. 
Alas ! they have seen the old hunter, 

And they bid him a speedy good-night. 

The shriek of the far locomotive — 
The baying of far distant hound, — 

The hoot of the owl from the timber — 
At eve, o'er the marsh, how they sound ! 

Here's a health! A health to the hunter! 

No pleasures are keener than his. 
As any old monarch of any old empire 

As happy he certainly is ! 



THEN AND NOW 

When forest nuts were falling with the frost 
And sere October's brush had touched the wood 
With magic colors of her myriad hues. 
With dog and gun I strolled, one Autumn day. 
To where, in boyhood's hours forever past — 
That "golden age" of all men's memory — 
I knew so well the haunts of wildfowl once. 
For years I had been in an active world — 
The ceaseless grind of life, with little rest ; 
And so had come once more where, as a boy 
I watched the dauntless mallard's steady flight. 

58 



All day I walked in thoughtful solitude. 
The change of years impressed at every glance. 
The stream was there, but only by the verge 
Rose trees, where once a great old forest stood. 
At length I came upon the one time marsh 
Where oft the thunder of a thousand wings 
Had echoed through the forest where it stood. 
I looked long on a field of stunted grain, 
In hopeless memory of other days. 

All day I noted little of game life — 
A few short lines of birds, high up in air. 
On rapid wing were beating toward the south ; 
From ofE a hickory a red squirrel leaped 
Among the leaves and scampered to his den ; 
Once out in open field a hawk was perched, 
As if he now slept, after midday meal. 
While from a wooded hill a quail's low call 
Was faintly sounding to his scattered mates. 

As I returned at eve with heavy step, 
And scarcely fired a shot within the wood, 
I read the lesson well of men's great greed 
For blood of all the life of wood and stream. 
Like our dark brothers of primeval days 
The game is swiftly passing from the earth. 



MISS VIRGINIA BYRON 

Oh, dearest idol that the far-off days 

Of boyish fancy could build up for praise — 

One solace from the clam'ring world's dull strife. 

One emblem of all good that is in life! — 

In dreams I've known you ever since life's morning! 

In love I'll keep you e'en at Heaven's dawning! 



59 



Oh, Miss Virginia Byron, 
Whom I have never met! — 

I'll seek you till my life-day's sun 
Is set — forever set! 

You're graceful as the young gazelle, 
You're fairest of the fair; 

And wise as Solomon himself 
Yet light and debonair! 

Oh, Miss Virginia Byron, 

Whom I met long ago 
In dreamland's wondrous shady vales 

Where beauties love to go — 

Your forehead, broad and lovely, 
Is high and fine and white; 

There's not a sculptor in the world 
Could make its image right! 

Your eyes are blue like Italy's 
Unclouded, perfect sky; — 

Oh you're Earth's perfect angel now- 
No use for you to die ! 

Your long dark hair is almost black 

And thick as it is fine ; 
Your lips so winsome and so sweet — 
I'll have to say "divine" ! 

Your nose hints of the blood in you— 
No better walks the earth. 

Your chin is sweet beyond compare, 
And it too hints your birth. 

With no less ideality 

Than Poe or Hawthorne had, 

60 



Your youthful joy and sweetness are 
Enough to drive men mad ! 

To tie your little shoe would be 
A shock that few could stand, — 

Not only would they hold the shoe— 
They'd sigh to hold your hand. 

Oh, when you walk upon the lawn 

To take the evening air, 
I think I really want to die 

Unless I meet you there. 

So stately and majestic 

Is every movement, love. 
The very stars must love to look 

Down on you from above! 

Oh, dear Virginia Byron 
Whom I have never met; 

I'll seek you till my life-day's sun 
Is set — forever set ! 

The power of all the ocean 
Is in your wondrous eye; 

Yet dearest of emotions 

With strength does ever vie! 

Had Bacchus ever known you dear, 
And you the word had said. 

He ne'er had let another grape 
Come near his curly head ! 

Had you been wondrous "Egypt" 
In Ptotmey's daughter's town, 

Enough for Latin Caesar 
Had been one little frown! 

6i 



Your soul Is spotless as the sun 

That shone in Eden's day 
And peerless, radiant palace is 

Fair Psj^che's home of clay! 

Oh, dear Virginia Byron, 

I'd lay life at your feet; 
Could I but call you for an hour 

My own! — my life! — my sweet! 

Oh, dear, Virginia Byron 

Whom I have never met 
I'll seek you till my life-day's sun 

Is set — forever set! 

Oh, dearest idol that the far-off days 

Of boyish fancy could build up for praise, — 

One solace from the clam'ring world's dull strife. 

One emblem of all good that is in life! 

In dreams I've known you ever since life's morning, 

In love I'll keep you e'en at Heaven's dawning. 



MARY 

She is a rustic maiden fair, 

Deep charming as the sea; 
With pure, deep eyes and wondrous hair 

And a heart that throbs for me. 
Ah, yes, 'tis sweet this life to live 

When living for another 
For of all dear words that tongue can give 

The best are wife and mother. 



62 



THE JAPS AND THE BEAR 

Oh, no ! that 'rough house' in the East 

Will not be 'on the bum' ! 
Those Japs will 'stick' that bruin beast — 

They'll sure thing 'bleed' him some, 
On the road to Harbin. 

When once that Russian armyski 

Is dumped off with its traps, 
The lambs must take the shambles — their 

Trains can't outrun the Japs, 
On the road to Harbin. 

Shrewd France is backward and the bear, 

Tho' big, can't stand alone. 
When he can't keep his fleet afloat 

How can he float a loan ? 

Hit the road from Harbin! 

The air must vibrate with the groans 

Of Russian corps undone — 
The plain must whiten as their bones 

Bleach 'neath the eastern sun, 
On the road to Harbin. 

The moment's numbness of quick death 

That drops men by the way 
Is nought — a flake of snow that melts 

And passes on to-day — 

On the road to Harbin. 

But, far away. Oblivion 

Snaps not the bonds of pain — 
Faint wives and mothers, through long years 

Must mourn for hoardes of slain — 
Oh, the road to Harbin ! 

63 



UNCLE BOBBY 

Uncle Bobby R. S. Thompkins, 

A free soul of the West, 
With many pleasing virtues is 

Most certainly well blest. 
There ne'er was tender lambkin's heart 

More soft than Uncle B. ; 
No blot has ever smeared a part 

Of his veracite-e. 

A retired agriculturist, 

He oversees the place; 
So, when a horse jumps in the corn 

He meets him face to face; — 
Unless that horse be young — 

Then Uncle B. may turn and flee 
And climb the nearest tree. 

Just as an engine has a valve 

To blow its steam away, 
Our uncle has a little speech 

To keep old Nick at bay. 
As he is of the Baptist faith 

All sailor talk is banned ; 
And yet, to speak no word at all 

Is more than he could stand. 

When some unlooked-for task is broached. 

For Uncle Bob to know. 
The rafters tremble with "it ought 

To been done long ago" ! 
"The stovepipe in the kitchen is 

A little wrong," they say, 
Then Uncle Bob proclaims "it ought 

To been fixed yesterday" ! 



64 



"The harrows, plows and implements 

Are all about to rust." 
Our uncle learns of all these things — ■ 

With rage about to 'bust.' 
"The buggy and the wagon and the 

Windmill all need grease." 
Our uncle thinks the grave is all 

That brings a man surcease. 

"The weeds and the potatoes 

Are in an awful fight, — 
Unless they're cleaned before it rains 

They'll be a 'perfect sight' !" 
"The gates are off their hinges 

And the hen house needs repair, 
And that the barn needs cleaning out 

He hears with grim despair. 

This fence and that is showing age, — 

Each needs a 'little turn.' 
His "words" are mild for all his rage 

His voice and tone tho' "burn." 
These and a thousand other things, 

R. Thompkins is not slow 
To state in his opinion "should 

A been done long ago." 

"The cows are in the orchard, and 
They're chewing the young trees." 

When gently he's informed of that. 
Then echoes three miles on the breeze 

"Where did they git in at" ! 

"The hens are in the garden ; they 

Are scratching out the seeds!" 
Then, Uncle Bob fast rushes out — 



6s 



Not waiting for his hat — 
But he his query screams aloud 
''Where did they git in at" ! 

The hogs are in the melon patch ; 

Uncle Bob just think of that!" 
Our uncle runs, but hollows back: 

"Where did they git in at"? 

Maud-Muller-like, each Saturday, 

He gazes at the town — 
Where sidewalk boards of strategy 

Hold many boxes down. 
They talk and talk of naval fights, 

Home politics 'and so,' 
Till merchants all turn out the lights; 

Then, "guess its time to go." 

No buggies, bikes or horses will 

Have worthy Uncle B. 
When he sets out for Richmond town, 

Serene — "footloose" — carefree — 
His name is Walker Thompkins 

And he's happy as can be. 

Sometimes a worthless "Democrat" 

Imposes on those ties 
Which bind mankind in noble faith 

But oft make room for lies — 
So such a one runs up in glee. 

With nicest words man ever heard ; 
And soon he borrows five or ten 

Upon his worthless word. 

Without our Uncle Bobby, we 

Should have a dismal time ; 
For tho' he has his little 'say' 

66 



His patience is sublime. 
Through rural aggravations, he 

Most bravely bears his part ; 
He never has brain fever but 

He has a noble heart. 

NO ROUND-TRIP TICKETS 

On Podunk Valley's 'Broadway' 

When spring is in the air, 
Duck-shooters' 'hipboots' are the thing 

To cross that thoroughfare ! 

About an hundred-seventy-two 
Was where Sue tipped the beam. 

And Will was never center rush 
On any foot-ball team. 

But Will was game and bore his girl 

Across the ''horrid" track. 
Alas ! she said "delighted Will ! 

I want to go right back!" 

"SEEIN" CHRISTMAS "THINGS" 

Jack and Jim went out that night 
With Barleycorn to seek a fight. 
They assailed John with all their might — 
Jack got drunk and Jim got 'tight'. 
They got home at break of morn ; 
They were 'broke' too, sure's you're born. 
Their father said 'twas awful queer 
That boys would do that way he'd swear — 
That boys who were a trifle green, 
Would walk right up with careless mien 
And poison the aesophagus, 
Seeking a new sarcophagus. 

67 



The mother said the Holy Birth 
Gave not a day for ribald mirth ; 
There should be then a highball dearth ; 
And "saddest thing of tongue or pen" 
Was that they would do so again. 

LIFE'S HANDICAPS 

Some strange things happen in our world, 
Wrong people say 'tisn't right, — 

The sweet flowers that the morning bloomed 
So often fade ere night! 

The 'nana peel gets in its work 

On men both short and tall ; 
Fair Fortune does her duty shirk 

In things both great and small. 

Once Billie Bikeman thought to sprint 
With champions of the world; 

The lion's legs were hard as flint, 
The monkey's tail was twirled. 

In circles pugilistic too 

Some sudden 'falls' are made:— - 
Not one of Begmore's sermons is 

As flat as champs are laid ! 

J. Corbett — a whole nation's pet, — 

Stood in the blue limelight, 
But Carson's sunshine made him fret ; 

Somehow he couldn't fight! 

Lean uncle Fitz was all the show, 

And 'acted' far and near; 
But, when he met another Jim 

His garlands took a tear. 

68 



No 'legal light' however young 

Could fail to stick the plea 
That Fitz, the mighty, was undone — 

By "sault and battery" ! 

Said he to Jeff when they begun 
"Dear boy you can't touch me." 

Just then Jeff struck the lankey one 
With some discourtesy! 

How sad ! he took the wicked punch, 

His bald spot hit the floor; 
The arclights turned all upside down- 

'Twas "out" forevermore! 

Some truly great men fail to blow 
Hope's buds that swell in spring ; 

When winter wraps the world in snow. 
They're not quite the whole thing. 

Bill Bryan was an awful josh 

Who sought a silver chair ; 
But, when he went to seat himself 

Another man was there! 

Yet future hist'ries must enroll 

The magic name of Bryan, 
For, 'tho' he fails to kick his goal, 

He never can quit tryin'. 

Dear Lafter (who weighed half a ton) 
When down to fight the heat ; 

Before he ever heard a gun. 
He wanted to "retreat!" 

"Good Summertime" was in that fray, 
So warmly thus the racket went, 



The fat one scarce could win the day 
By 'killing soldiers' in his tent! 

O Spain ! you said 'twould be a cinch 

To battle on the wave ; 
But when you got a few good slaps, 

You wasn't half so brave ! 

There's Boxing Bull whose "thin red line" 

Grew thinner in the South ; 
When first he shook and bent his spine 

He blocked blows with his mouth ! 

The ghost of Wellington came then 

To stop his home's disgrace; 
So, ere the ref'ree counted ten, 

John rose with bloody face. 

O'om Paul once in the public eye 

Did loom up strong and big. 
But Cronge's penned to curse and cry — 

Now Paul's astride the pig. 

Our Uncle Sam thought 'twould be nice 
To make Ag's blacks eat crow; 

But, when they ask the dear old man, 
He says the work's still slow. 

One Castro of a summer land, 

(Whence some slight trouble springs) 

Says he holds something of a hand, 
And thinks 'twill beat two kings. 

When Ed and Bill take such a pill 

As Dr. Sam could try, 
The biliousness which they possess 

Should 'pass ofE' rapidly. 

70 



It looks like Samuel ought to go 
Down through that neck-'o-wood, 

And file the sights off all the guns 
And make those bad men good ! 

Bob Ingersoll was mighty 'great' 

And raised a fearful row, 
But in his wrestle with his "Fate" 

He's struck the real thing now. 

Say would he give his earthly rep 

To leap from Styx's tide. — 
Or, are his questions settled now, 

Beyond that Great Divide? 

Some truly great men fail to blow 
Hope's buds that swell in spring; 

When Winter wraps the world in snow 
They're not quite the whole thing. 

Yes, strange things happen in our world 
Wrong people say 'tisn't right — 

The fair flowers that the morn unfurled, 
So often fade ere night ! 



RURAL PRACTICE 

"Jim Jinks has fell down on his leg 
And broke it half into-o 
He says ter bring yer surgin tools 
An' fix it P. D. Q." 

The messenger steered 'round his horse 

And galloped up the road; 
A farmer friend who stood near by 

Said "well I'lljesbeblowed!" 

71 



'Doc' saddled up old Billy and 

Attended Mr. Jim, 
And put in several hours on 

The patching up of him. 

'Doc' thought but little of the fee, 
While in the 'bloody' muss, 

And, as he left Jim said to him : 
"Well, Doc, guess you know us." 

Well, Jim has covered many a mile 
On his game leg since then. 

He ne'er paid 'Doc' a pleasant smile — 
Much less the well-earned ten. 

When 'Doc' alluded to the bill, 
When he met Jim one day, 

Jim said the "sperience" that Doc got 
"Wus ample ernufF pay." 



EMOTIONAL AND MOTIONAL POETRY 

Tommy Gray and Tommy Ryan 

Came on different dates; 
Poets both — of thought or motion — 

Two 'strong' candidates! 

Tommy Gray thought o'er the ocean ; — 

He was poet of E-motion ; — 
T'other took a different notion: 

He is poet of swift motion. 

Tommy Gray — he fought with "pomp," — 

T'other fights without it. 
But he wins bread in a romp 

And 'aint' long about it ! 

72 



This muscular poet — we'd have you to know it, 
Is worth a whole morgue full of 'dead ones,' 

For bread that is won and a few things well done 
Are worth quite a bunch of well said ones. 



PLEASURES OF RURAL LIFE 

When I rode about the country 

On a cycle built for one, 
You can bet your old "eight dollars" 

That I had some little fun. 
'Twas away out in that region 

Where the balmy zephyrs blow; 
Where city people want to move 

When landlords come and go. 

"I went to see" my brother there 

Who "ran" a model farm — 
'Twould break your heart, dear reader, 

Should I tell of half its charm! 
The dog dozed in the rocker 

So I took a footstool near, 
And said it was a pleasant day 

As I felt my "breeches" tear. 

'Twas one, p. m., but Bridget had 

Not moved to "start the fire," 
Yet the family calmly waited — 

For they knew her mighty ire. 
She was far off o'er the ocean 

With the hero of her heart: — 
The novels are so cheap you know, 

They have to play their part! 

My brother in the sitting room 
Was painting at a chair; 

73 



And much of what he left on it 

Was all the brushes' hair. 
When he stepped out, the baby thought 

He was a painter too ; 
So he sampled white and yellow 

And then he tried the blue. 

A bunch of Poland Chinas came 

To mow upon the lawn, 
And trim a few June Roses 

Before the buds came on. 
The 'mules' leaped "o'er the garden wall" 

To have a little play; 
"We'll have it all to plant again," 

Said John, "some other day." 

My brother spoke about these things 

In language that was plain, — 
His wife had grown quite used to it, 

So she could bear the strain. 
When he, within his mighty "boots," 

In anger "walked the floor" 
It shook as if he weighed a ton 

At least, if not some more. 

A hen strolled through the dining-room, 

(Of wing power she was able) 
So when they tried to drive her out 

She flew upon the table. 
She made right for the window panes, 

"With many a flirt and flutter;" 
And when she hit them hard and loud 

She fell into the butter. 

I stole into the pantry, with 
"The spider and the fly," 



74 



And the cat was calmly feeding 
On the latest custard pie; 

And, to the water that we drank 
A permeating smell 

Was given by some pole-kittens 
That tumbled in the well. 

The pleasures of a rural life 

Real limitations have; 
But all these little charms you know 

Make up a perfect salve. 
'Twould seem there is no sort of life 

But mixes bitter-sweet ; 
Until we have our ''angel food" 

Served on the Golden Street. 



THE "QUESTION" 

(Whitmanesque Metre) 

'John Doe,' "a youth to Fortune and to Fame un- 
known," . ,, 
Was exceedingly desirous of "a lady of his own. 
Because of the ways of the "notre cour," 
When the owner thereof is aged twenty-four, — 
(Or even, perchance, just a wee bit more) — 
In the words of the hymn to the Holy Power ; 
He "needed" his love "every blessed hour" ! 
John heard so much talk about 'affinitee' 
That he thought he really should have to "see" ^ 
If wearing 'double harness' made everybody 'sore' 
Or became "a thing of beauty" forevermore. 
So, he told his troubles to an editor man 
And tried the ultra-modern advertisement plan ; 
For John thought the way the modern "question' 
ran 

75 



Was *'to be or not to be" a real "Benedict" man. 
Many pleasant words of greeting then went to Mr, 

Doe 
From every direction that the four winds blow. 
(Note — Mr. Doe's "undiscovered," like Hamlet's, 
remains a mystery). 



THE 'BOOZER'S' HEALTH 

Ah, here's to the vine 
That bears the fair wine 

That banishes trouble away! 
Forever be thine 
Good Bacchus thy wine 

That vanquishes sorrow today! 
And a health to the corn 
Which we need at morn 

To drive the mean headache away ! 

May thy glory shine 
One friend of mine 

With freedom's foes ever at bay! 
Long life to the vine. 
That bears the fair wine. 

That vanquishes sorrow to-day ! 
And a health to the corn, 
Which we need at morn. 

To drive the mean headache away! 



76 



BILL JONES ON MUSIC 

They've got ther aw'flest orgin, up 

Tu Kansas City, Joe, — 
It takes a ten-hoss ingine fur 

Tu make ther bellers blow! 
She's forty foot by sixty, an' 

She's tuned fur all she's worth; — 
Them Kansas City people wants 

Ther bigges things on earth! 

Thar mus' be lots o' difference 

'Twix orgins fur I hear 
That jumbo cos' a hundred thou- 

San' dollers; — ain't it queer? 
When I bought Ginny's instrument, 

A year ago las' fall, 
Frum Shears an' Roluck, forty plunks 

Paid fer it frait an* all. 

I've heerd a lot o' argument 

'Bout kings o' instruments; — 
Ther more uf 'em as I hear work 

Ther more I'm on ther fence; 
This horn an' that, peanerforts. 

An' fiddles great an' small ; 
Fur soothin' o' ther savage breast 

Is claimed as best uv all. 

When old Tom Jones wus a young man- 
Jest in his fiddlin' prime, 

I thought he plaid ole "Arkainsaw" 
In tones that wuz sublime. 

He placed a vishus inargy 
Intu his tremblin' bow, 

In "leather britches" an' all sich 
That made things pop an' go I 

77 



But times hev changed with music — 

Like a lot o' other things; — 
Now, folks 'ud laugh an' some 'ud run 

Ef Tom come near ther strings. 
I guess ther fiddle still is strong 

When worked by lighter hans', 
But ''artists" has 'bout cornered it — 

It makes sech grate demans'. 

An' tho' I guess a mighty ban' 

Lays all else in ther shade, 
Them jumbo orgins is ther best 

Lone music-makers made. 
All dinky tunes like "goo-goo eyes," 

Sech orgins scorn tu play. 
Ole Handel's dust tho' speaks agin 

Vast multertudes tu sway. 

Yep, Ginny's Hierwothe, an' 

Sech 'music uf ther day' 
Will be rafused as wuthless junk — 

So I hears people say. 
Ther chorus o' "Messiar great," 

As preacher Duckum says. 
Will thunder an' revarberate 

In stately sumber prais ! 

I red a little in sum books 

'Bout them thar music men, 
As lived in furrin cuntries, an' 

Rit best that's ever ben: — 
How ole Mozart wus buried on 

A day thar cum a rain ; 
An' mighty few thought 'nuf o' him 

To go whar he war lain. 

Folks didn*t 'preciate ther work 
Whut them thar masters done 

78 



Till cinturies o' crime an' thought 

O'er this ole worl' has run. 
They didn't want no tunes like them 

'Twar rote by ole Mozart; — 
They wanted music uf ther feet ; 

An' his'n wuz uf ther heart. 

Thar wuz a man named Creatore, — 

Who run a furrin ban', — 
I heerd him at ^'Convention Hall," 

An', Joe, them tunes wuz gran ! 
They played a lot o' overtures 

By masters, as 'twar said ; 
An' w^hen they quit, yer ole pa's eyes 

Wus gittin mighty red. 

They started out with Wagner, an' 

Thar come a storm that night, 
An' thunderclaps that shook ther walls 

Rode with ther Valkyries' flight ! 
Ther storm died down an' then they played 

Liszt's second rhapsody. 
Hit all seemed like another world : — 

Er strange, new world, tu me! 

An' then they played sum simple tunes — 

As I had heerd afore; — 
But, boy, ther way they plaid 'um wus 

Er reverlation shore ! 
Ther "gems o' Stephen Foster," by 

Terbani last they tried ; — 
Ther echoes o' that music, Joe, 

With me haz never died. 

Yep, Joe, good music is, I b'lieve, 
Fur Heaven's own minstrulsy; — 



79 



Spirits o' Beauty an' o' Truth — 

Religin 'nuf fer me! 
An' when ther fall's fine days cum ny, 

An' hot-wins pass erway, 
An' farmin's lax with craps laid by — 

We'll hear that orgin play! 



RAY COUNTY, MISSOURI 

Still west the mighty tide of empire comes! 
With far prophetic eye did Berkeley look 
Across the wave unto the setting sun. 

Ye gorgeous climes, where tropic flowers bedeck 
The earth in garb of sweet, eternal spring — 
Ye lands afar, where mighty mountains rise — 
Ye lands that boast of wondrous piles of rock, 
That kings have builded in the ages dead ; — 
We envy not your fame, however great! 

Does sunlight fall upon a spot of earth 

More free, — more nobly blest by Nature's dower,- 

More independent of all succor from 

Afar, than this, our own — our dear home land ? 

Long life ! good tillers of our fertile home ! 
May the race grow in wealth of mind and grace. 
And things material the world calls wealth, 
Till, lost to view be great De Soto's grave ; — 
Till waves of brine from far Atlantic's realm 
Meet other waves from 'neath the setting sun ! 



80 



THE MAD HERMIT 

(Part First — Introductory) 

Some hunters in a lonely mountain vale, 

Far in the region of the great North-west, 

In search of water came upon a rude, 

Small hut where solitude oppressed so strange, 

The pilgrims wondered much as they drew near 

What sort of man would choose a dwelling there. 

No form of life was evident except 
A dog; half starved, that wavered feebly forth 
And looked inquiring at the men with faint, 
Imploring eyes. 

When knocks upon the door 
Brought no response, at length, the men advanced 
To glance through open windows to the room. 
Where pleasant air of early autumn time 
Flowed gently in. They looked, and there, half 

dressed, 
Upon a bed a figure lay ; — a man, 
Quite young in years — a glance told he was dead. 

A host of great, green flies that swarmed about 
Made ghastly evident to those strong men 
To what ill-favored depths, what low estate 
That form in God's own image now had sunk! 

They went within and thought to render such 
Last service as that unexpected scene 
Might warrant them to make. Within the place 
Most rude and plain, there lay a handsome man 
In early life, whom even the rude garb. 
And long environment remote and wild, 
And even ravage of disease had failed 
8i 



To banish quite some ornament of grace 
And quality that hung about the man. 
He had been one whom evil circumstance 
Had foully murdered in a ruined life. 

A hamlet camp some miles a-down the vale 
There was, whence chanced a friend to seek the dead. 
From this newcomer now, the hunters learned 
Of how the dead had lived, quite crazed in mind 
At times, a hermit there for many months. 

This man to do him kindness came at times ; 
And more and more he grew to know and love 
And wonder at the strange and lonely man. 
But on the day before, this friend had come ; 
And learning that an illness had assailed 
The man, he left at once for drugs and aid. 
And now had come again ; but haply death 
Had ended that so strangely fruitless and 
Starved life. 

With few and simple words, the men, — 
The hunters and the hermits friend, now laid 
To final rest in that wild land, beneath 
A giant pine within the flowered vale, 
The hermit's dust. 

But little could be learned 
From any source anent the wild, lone life. 
The hermit was of noble birth, — born in 
A foreign land. A drear, strange tragedy 
Made him an outcast in the world from youth : — 
A wanderer, with mind in darkness lost ; — 
A human form in lost identity — 
Purposeless wayfarer upon the earth. 



82 



The man was never raving mad, so on 

He came through life, quite unrestrained for years. 

He gained his meager bread by devious ways, 

And as men passed him in life's active throng, 

They noted not a noble soul was wrecked 

By fate of evil circumstance. 

At times 
The cloud would lift from of¥ the hermit's mind ; 
And thus the one friend of his last, dark days 
Gained some faint echoes from the far-off scenes 
Of castles grand and palaces and towers 
That he was born to in a far-of¥ land. 

The hermits' sire, though nobly born, was a 
Degenerate most vile. His memory 
Upon the stricken child endured as fiend 
Incarnate ; — master of all evil things. 

The mother of the lad was one most rare. 
Her love and grace and beauty and all worth 
Lived ever in the lost mind of her son. 

Just how the end — the shock — the tragedy 

So deeply wrecked that lost man's life, long years 

Ago, is only vaguely known. 'Twas learned 

That in some way a massive chest became 

A part of that dark tragedy, that in 

The hermit's clouded mind took form most drear. 

As he drew near and nearer unto death, 

He seemed to live in memory through all 

His torture of that crime unceasingly. 

He was a master of the violin ; 

That strange, wild man, and when the wind moaned 

through 
The giant pines at night within the vale, 

83 



A,nd the calm stars looked down, his shrieks of weird. 
Keen agony and the soft whispered sighs 
That blended with the wind were oft prolonged 
For hours into the night. That lone man thought 
The spirit of his mother came to him ; 
And spoke with music's language and the winds. 
And called up spectres of the long lost days, 
And breathed unto that soul fair truths of hope, 
Eternity and Heaven. 

Thus much had learned 
The friend who came to pity and to love 
The strange lost man ; and somewhat more in that 
Some fragment memories in crude, vague rhyme 
The hermit left; — some fancies arabesque — 
As fleeting shadows thrown Into the light, 
By which, but vaguely we can view lost forms ; — 
Like strains of music that died long ago; 
Or half flown memories of singing birds 
In spring blest dells — now masked beneath the snow. 

(Part Second — The Hermit's Fragment) 

There's something in the human breast 
That can not sleep — that will not rest: 
A bond connecting earth and Heaven — 
A proof that man's soul is God-given, 
Religion, Beauty, Poetry? — 
What e'er perchance that power may be, 
Yet none from it dare be called free. 

When this strange, hoary earth was young. 
Ere knell of fate by flood was rung. 
The children of that mistrapped hour 
Bowed low before all unknown power. 
It may be fancy, but it seems 
There yet is often truth in dreams : — 

84 



That there may be a weird birth 

In such of something more than earth. 

I knew a youth not long ago — 

Doomed soon to sleep 'neath winter's snow — 

Who dreamt a dream that seemed to be 

A thing of deepest mystery. 

In verses strange and vague he wrote 

The dream, and he did seem to dote 

Upon the idea that therein 

Lay truth as fate's decree had been. 

The poem, a dark dirge forlorn, 

A midnight wail, lone graveyard born, 

Of far, faint echoes is not shorn. 

He was a dreamer of dark dreams ; 
He loved to float o'er Fancy's streams; 
lie often said that he should come 
To view again his old-time home. 

In the future state of men, 

There is naught within our kin. 

Say we their steps they ne'er retrace, — 

Those nameless, blameless ones of space? 

How can we know that they come not 

To view again our own low lot? 

Still flows the lovely Thames along 
The scene that yields this mournful song; — 
This weird, sad mingling wild and free. 
Of fancy with dear memory. 
There oft above those ruffling waves, 
O'er lilied verge, by wild-flowered caves, 
The whispering w inds of heaven bore 
Love's heartbeats through the days of yore. 
Around that far place used to be 
Dear scenes of youthful gaiety. 

85 



Full many a heart to music's strain 
Beat hot and quick in love's old reign. 
God's silent hand was in those dells, 
And heed was paid the old church-bells. 
A mother's voice, sweet, kind and low, 
Soothed hearts that throbbed there long ago. 

Almost the idol of that home, 

Where Youth and Love were wont to roam, 

Of all, the chief, the happiest one; 

Was that good mother's stately son. 

There came a day — woe w^orth the day ! — 
That severed short Joy's old-time sway! 
Yet we ask not why fate should be 
But bow the knee to Destiny. 

It was decreed a cloud of gloom 
Should settle over manhood's bloom. 
All mirth was stifled in a breath : — - 
The fair son's sire lay cold in death. 
It had not been a grief too much 
For all to bear, had not the touch 
Of foul dishonor been the dower 
Bequeathed by that sire's parting hour! 

Seek not, O Memory, to disclose 
That blight bequeathed by him who goes 
To highest Court and leaves to those — 
His blood-ties — many, many foes! 
Suffice that one, a blighting curse, 
Was parent to that one far worse. 
That father's last foul breath was given 
To railings 'gainst all Earth and Heaven. 
The curse of Bacchus was the least — 
Yet greatest in the human beast: 
For though more potent be a sin 

86 



Which Mem'ry scorns to garner in — 
Yet, born it was of that damned vine 
That bears the vaunted wondrous wine. 

Though awful was that father's doom, 
Who sank beneath a villains tomb. 
Yet, pray w^e that the soul may be, 
ICedeemed by mercy, pure and free. 

And, now such gloom o'er-spread that place 

As pen the half could never trace. 

The clouds of war soon fly along, 

And soothing friends are drifted on. 

Till naught remains of youth's old throng. 

The brave, kind mother struggles long 
To bear her sorrow and be strong ; 
At last, the end most swiftly came ; — 
llie pure calm mind is not the same ; — 
Once brilliant light — now vanished flame. 

(,)np morn the son with sorrow bowed — 
His footfalls echoing strangely loud — 
Strode weirdly through the ghostly halls — 
His voice came back from those high walls — 
No mother answered that son's calls! 

Time dragged his shadows o'er that home, 

Sorrows cup did bubble and did foam. 

Wild and strange as some nightmare 

Were the shapes that hovered there. 

That son a hermit now did grow — 

From misery his head sank low 

And he a ghostly mien did wear — 

Where was that mother? — he knew not where! 



87 



Methlnks I see that home once mofe, 
As in those last, wild days of yore : — 
See clouds of darkness float and How 
Above that palace as long ago! 
Grand victor of time, yon lofty dome, 
Alas! dark relic, abandoned home! 
For those who loved those stately walls 
Are fast asleep in Death's black halls. 
The old palace rests in solitude; — 
Lone Nature's realm — no foes intrude. 
There 'round her portals far and free 
Hovers a silent minstrelsy. 

Yet, does that mystic place retain — 
To make complete dull Horror's reign — 
One tenant of those chambers drear — 
One heart entombed in memories dear! 
Thus leave the gods of Fate to roam 
The bleak, wide waste of Sorrow's home, 
The mind that demons seek to share 
To rule in fear the passions there! 

No father's voice there gently calls, 
No children's mirth rings through those halls. 
Each sound returns from those white walls — 
Which, through the twilight seem like palls — 
While trembling vines in the midnight wind 
Thrill horrors through the lonesome mind. 

Each morn brings to the sleepless bed 
Sounds of a ghostly, frightful tread: — 
Old Time, the giant, stalks that way — 
All hope of rest he wards away. 
The hermit knows this giant old, 
But now his heart is growing cold — 
That walk — a stealthy murderous tread — 



That walk must shake each grave-yard bed — 
Must raise the listless ranks of dead ! 

Fair morn of youth, on angel wing, 
Dreams not Old Age will wreak his sting. 
Time leaves peace to the youthful core. 
That conquest yet may seem the more. 

Not age — not death are ends now sought. 
The hermit knows Time's ghastly thought : 
Knows Sorrow's wand can't cease to wave 
xA.bove him on this side the grave. 

Old Time meets youth in fairest mood — 
Fats the young heart, then sucks the blood. 
The King he is, all own his might, — 
A Queen goes with his murderous flight — 
Weird Silence 'tis. Queen of the Night, 
The twain dull Sorrow's battles fight. 

Now, Silence casts o'er Sorrow's bloom 
A cloud that seems that hermit's doom. 
A lingering, listless, hopeless grief 
Has fallen o'er yon home's young chief. 

Long bound by the drear, mystic chain. 

The heart, that fluttered dreams not now of pain 

The hermit now so long entombed. 

By those drear walls that once consumed 

The merry notes from Earth's fair young — 

When peal on peal was to the soft winds flung — 

He cares not, now, for swiftest beat 

Down lonely paths of old Time's feet. 

No, nevermore does that son feel alone, — 

For he now consumes with those walls of stone, — 



89 



And he loves the moan of the ancient trees 
That seem to breathe lost memories. 

Oft the moonbeams play on a picture there — 
O'er the silent face throw a won'dring stare — 
As if, through the mist from a home above, 
That mother seeks kind thoughts of love. 
And strange are the hermit's thoughts and mien 
As the shades enwrap that midnight scene — 
'Round the ancient chair his mother has held 
Float from the boughs dark forms of eld. 

Oft, as he looks down the silent aisle, 
He seems to start at a demon's smile; 
An ancient wine-chest stands in the gloom — 
The tempter's key to the father's doom ! 

The swiftest glance at that black chest 
Gives deathly faintness at the breast; — 
Yet he knows that not for a life again 
Could he seek to shun that cause of pain ! 
There, let him turn but the swiftest glance. 
The soul is enwrap't by a magic trance. 

There, round that coffer seem to glide, 
Vast forms from the far-ofiE spirittide. 
Oft, in those mystic clouds are seen 
The springs of youthful hopes serene, — 
Alas! for the weary heart to-night. 
That beats the dirge of lost youth's delight! 

So dark are the clouds that o'er him wave. 
That hermit hopes for the lonesome grave. 
The giant has murdered the monarch Thought 
Oh that is the victory Time has wrought ! 



90 



Now reigns a horror companion of death: 
Fair Reason returns — he draws but a breath! — 
Oh, grim are the foes that come to dwell 
On the battle-ground where the Monarch fell ! 
There, over the tide of those nightly dreams, 
Float the wild tones of a mur'drer's screams — 
Then is heard old Despair, the vulture, dart 
From the splashing blood of a father's heart! 
Deep in the lonesome dead of night, 
Vague voices scream faint tones of fright, — 
Then, anon is heard a muffled groan 
Followed only by the night-wind's moan. 

Through the dim mist of the wild dreams 
Fly flitting lights — uncertain gleams, — 
'Tis as some tropic isle, unknown. 
O'er which the waves at last are thrown ;— 
As the isle's sweet beauty, lone and free. 
Is swept beneath the furious sea — 
That garden dreamland lately blown 
Is quickly claimed for Sorrow's own. 
Ah, strange the joy when memory casts 
Those visions of the long-flown past ! 
Then do the acts of a mother shine 
Brighter gems than the sea-washed mine. 
Alas ! that flame is long subdued 
By drear forebodings and solitude. 

Oh look! now view 'bove that home's spires. 
The gath'ring lights of Hell's nightfires! 
Vague shapes from Darkness now return 
The hermit's soul to tear and burn. 

Fleet shifting scenes in panorama strange 

Flame the hermits' brain with wondrous weird 

change. 
That home, that hearth, the mother's olden throne— 

91 



Are proudly reared In life ; gloom has forever flown ! 
With softest tread and sweetest voices gay, 
Earth's fairest maids sweep thoughts of ill away ! 

Lo, at another glance the tide of life has turned — 
The father's life has flown to be forever burned, 
And reason leaves the desolate mother's mind. 
To roam lost subject of the midnight wind. 
Now, weirdly through the monlight glare 
Some shade is moving — what is there? 
Oh spectral shape! and yet another! 
Nay, 'tis but one — that son's lost mother! 

Now, forms flit round the hermits bed: — 

Earthly things are vanished, Heavens come instead. 

Behold ! a message is by angels borne : — 

God bids that mother nevermore to mourn ! — 

A harp that angels toned is left 

To soothe the soul Earth has bereft. 

Behold the sleeping mother's bed ! lo ! a prophesy ! — 

Good angels tell of what shall be. 

The mother sweeps the harp the angels brought — 

She dreams no more of misery fiends have wrought. 

Lo ! the halls are vacant grown ; — with silent tread, 
A fair youth stalks round his unseen dead. 
He views no corpse near his chamber door — 
But glides by sobbing "no more, no more" ; 
Wild are the eyes that once were lustrous bright ; — 
Now pass the forms, and all is silent night. 

A fire bursts over Reason's realm again ; 

Seeks the lost Monarch on the olden throne to reign. 

Alas! sad victim of the days now dead, 

That haunts on faul'tring wing the hermit's bed ! 

Wild clouds fly fast o'er slumbering desire — 

Ah, sweetly mourn o'er Life's low smouldering fire. 

92 



Soars the lost monarch long on trembling wing 
O'er joys entombed fair Nature can not bring! 
Now, lone and desolate his backward flight, 
Sinks the lost monarch into rayless night. 

The hermit sleeps. Behold, in phantom mood, 

How ghastly forms sweep forth in human blood. 

Where swept the spectres o'er that ancient chest — 

Now weeps, now bleeds the mother's aching breast. 

There Heaven's statue stands, though Earth's be 
'neath the sod : — 

The spectre of that mother with gaze upturned to 
God. 

Now, faintly strains of music flow — 'tis Heaven's 
note 

Of rapture to the soul that fiends have smote. 

A light o'erspreads the anguished brow — a joy sub- 
lime! 

The Ruler high hath said "seek thou a purer clime! 

To save one soul from Hell's surrounding doom. 

Of yon enchanted chest make thou thy living tomb. 

The ancient door gives one weird, grating tone. 

In welcome of the flight to regions far, unknow^n ; — 

One low, strange, muffled sound, one last expiring 

breath. 
Tells to the winds of night the victory of Death. 

Now flit black vultures round the ancient chest : 
Grim messengers to the fastly cooling breast. 
No entrance can the raging demons make — 
They float on sullen wing back to Hell's awful lake. 

Hark! wings of angels fan the dreary night. 
Now wakes the slumbering Soul to Heaven's last de- 
light. 
A wondrous light darts from the hideous chest — 

93 



The whirring tones have passed, and all Is now at 
rest. 

Hark! this midnight stillness so drear and so long 
Is broken by the mother-angel's song: — 

Now, veil and mist no more resist 

Fair dreams of hope once fled ; 
And star-worlds shiver, as beacons ever, 

To realms where Death hath led. 

It is the Spirits' instrument. 

From God the gift was given — 
Its tones were born, not of the earth, 
But born high up in Heaven. 

It was His — God's will to grant to her 

That boon from mercy ever; 
The chord of life, when on the earth. 

Did not completely sever. 

One joy is left for him who dwells 

In misery's earthly fold: 
To nightly hold communion with 

The soul he loved of old. 

The tones are those, which, on the streets 

Of that far-off high City, 
Must thrill the souls of all who reach 

Those far-off gates, through pity. 

While the mad hermit dreaming sleeps, 
Her harp that mother-angel sweeps. 
Toned by far Heaven's whispering wind — 
'TIs swept to soothe the aching mind. 
The mournful hermit dreams to hear 
Sounds that enchant his palsied ear ; 

94 



While, faintly o'er the mind is spread 
A flitting truth of the midnight dead. 
Those strands by the breath of Heaven play — 
Those notes to the soul of the hermit stray — 
Thus swept by the guardian angel's tone, 
Flies the dismal cloud from Reason's throne. 
Now the morn comes on with radiance bright 
To banish the shades of that hideous night. 
Ah ! that son knows not of the wretched truth 
Of those weird, wild visions of buried youth ! 
On Truth's dull wing may pinioned be 
Dark dreams of men's sad history. 
Thus the weird lights, this midnight shed 
May light the hermit's dying bed. 



Days, months and years drag drearily, 
While dwells that son so wearily — 
And yet, he does not cease to be. 



In a haunted palace, far beyond the sea, 
A skeleton, that once was woman fair. 

Within an ancient chest was found to be — 
Where many years it had been hidden there. 

The secret of that mother's taking off, 

The lost son never learned upon this earth. 

That dawned, with other secrets, when were doffed 
The trappings of the soul at final birth. 

With Earth's great pageant that has gone before — 
They pass, and are of Earth no more. 
The last scene of their tragedy 
Is closed unto Eternity. 



95 



And though her bones are scattered there, 
And worms have shorn her once bright hair, 
Yet, in that City high above, 
She lives in God's eternal love. 

ADVERSITY 

How oft the trees with foliage dense 
In time of storm make least defense! 
And when the rainbows' most serene 
The sunlight wrecks the fairy scene. 
How long ere the babe on mother's knee 
If not controlled would the master be? 
So us like the babe does God restrain — 
The soul is weakest when pleasures reign, 

A DREAM 
(A Dramatic Poem) 

I stood upon a foreign land ; — 

A craggy shore of a lone sea ; 
Whose wail came o'er the surf and sand — 

A weird, lone, awful minstrelsy. 

Some strange, calm halo seems to rest 

About the vast, dark loneliness, 
As if some stamp of Time has pressed 

Some last farewell — some last caress. 

As if some action, drear and wild. 

Has here transpired in days entombed, 

Whose echo time has not beguiled — 
Whose shade has not consumed. 

Look! methinks yon shadows so drear 
Enwrap some mighty monument! 

96 



Some ancient tomb of memories dear, 
Grim Time's fleet changes to resent. 

Ah! clearer now, a fallen home; 

Lone landmark of another day, — 
Where Youth and Love were won't to roam, 

And Life and Joy attend the way. 

That palace now, as if in sleep, 

Rests calmly by the hoary brine, 
With bat-winged Silence there to sweep, 

In Nature's awful law divine. 

There flowers untrained, untrampled, grow 
About the once-loved verdant turf. 

Where airy steps of long ago 

Trip't lightly o'er the mother earth. 

I turn, O wondrous mighty Sea, 

To ask thee of this mystery! — 
That laved these rocks in glory free 

When eyes now dimmed looked over thee. 

When hearts throbbed faster for thy roar — 
Love stronger for thy beauty grew — 

Can'st thou forget those now no more 
Thy power and glory here to view ? 

But now, O glorious, noble Sea — 

Untouched by age and death roU'st on — 

Even now^ thou bearest unto me 

The tale of those who long have gone! 

Ah, thou dost tell me, even now; 

The tale of those who trod this slope : 
A tale of Life and Death, and how 

A ghastly foe assailed fair Hope. 



From out the wild, weird melody, 

The music of the writhing sea, 
It seems that long-lost memory 

And tongues now dead are known to me. 

O, wake ! ye Echoes that have died ! — 
From lips once fair, now long entombed ; 

Reveal the joy that Hope supplied 

When Youth and Love and Fancy bloomed! 

Thus moans the sea of that repose — 
That world of Silence, now long spread 

O'er yon old home and all that goes 
To mark the memory of the dead. 

Now, brightly shines the glittering dome. 
With the far-flung waves before her; 

All Beauty is that palace home 

With cloudless skies floating o'er her. 

Within dwell Youth and Morning gay. 
Where things of earth are honored well. 

And Pride, adorned in bright array. 
All carnal mirth the more to swell. 

Full many a heart is dancing now 
Within yon radiant palace walls, 

Yet many a sadly pensive brow 

May come from out those stately halls. 

Far myriad worlds look down in peace 

Upon this earthly revelry; 
Where human hearts, in joy's surcease. 

Know not the memory of a sigh. 

Now, through the gloom of fading light 
The lofty spires reflect the beams 

98 



Around where Youth, with love's affright 
Floats o'er life's tide of dreams. 

But, suddenly there comes a lull 

O'er all this joyous revelry. 
Some Shadow, dark and weird and dull, 

Is found amid this gayety. 

A voice, a world all in that tone : 

"He comes not yet ? — God let me wait ! 

Oh, must I leave him thus so lone ? 
O God that he be not too late! 

Now hark ! within so still — no echoes swell 
Who comes, to hush Joy's breath — 

And thus good Pleasure's doom to knell? 
Oh God ! that Shade is Death. 

This spectral monarch came at morn. 
As if to envy youth's fair bloom ; — 

'Tis eve, he leaves all hearts forlorn, 
Beneath a woeful shroud of gloom. 

The fairest one now lies in Sleep 
Who roved those halls enchanted. 

Full many souls in anguish weep 
That Hell in vain has taunted. 

Lo ! the form is a woman, fair. 
Fair as this world can ever be; 

In queenly clay with midnight hair 
Was soul of Orphean minstrelsy. 

Though, as the setting sun went down 
Into yon rounded main. 



99 



LofO. 



Her music tones were borne around 
By Love's unbroken chain, — 

Yet, ere some fathoms' salt have risen 
Above the passing orb of day, 

The Soul has fled from out her prison ; — 
And Love's myth-boy is turned away. 

Thus, when )Aon bright full-moon arose 
Athwart the gloom-robed eastern heath, 

That queenly form lay in repose — 
The last — the deep repose of death. 

There would have been a v»"edding grand 

At this majestic festival, 
But Death the Monarch gave command 

Those earthly pleasures to recall. 

Alas! the noble and the proud 

Must die! She fills a virgin's bed. 

Soon o'er cold Beauty's mould the shroud 
Is placed for she of earth is dead. 

Her caprice but an hour ago 

Thrilled every heart with loveliness. 
There, beautiful and pure as snow^, 

She lies — so cold — so motionless! 

But, oh ! upon that silent brow 
Is ghastly writ defeat of Love. 

Ah, one! how could she leave him now. 
The new-found path of woe to rove? 

Hark ! echoes now a stately tread ! 

He comes, with heart of burning glee. 
He reels, he falls beside the dead 

Beneath a weight of misery. 

lOO 



'Tis said that round Niagara's sweep, 
Some hellish Thought dwells by the rock, 

When some worn wanderer views the leap 
To pierce the brain — O God ! the shock ! 

So, now the trap of fate seems set 
For one of Earth's weak wanderers, 

To tempt to dumbness to forget 

Life's ghastly pain and woe and fears. 

O, child of Nature that we are 
What agonies now fill — o'erflow 

Thy soul ? Can reason hope to bear 

Thy struggle up, — they weight of woe? 

Yet look ! he rose, looked solemn down 

Upon the object of his love; 
Faintly he touched the snow-white gown, 

Now^ turns his gaze in awe above. 

" 'Tis true — most wonderful is death! 

And I shall meet her here no more — 
Ne'er on my cheek shall feel her breath; 

Yet hope tells of a better shore." 

He takes strands from the fair brow cold. 
He meets her lips — earth's last forever. 

And now, with her in grander mould. 
He views a life death may not sever. 

And now the night is speeding fast. 

And hearts which joy so light have borne 

Are moved forlorn and silent on 

To wait the duties of a coming morn. 



01 



Above the spires of that old home, 
In beauty calm and far and free, 

Faithful her ancient track to roam 
The full-orbed moon speeds silently. 

But lo ! beneath the steady beams, 
A youthful form is passing there; — 

Silent as visions of wild dreams, — 

The mind now lost, crazed by despair. 

Now strikes upon the startled air 
A voice once musical and bold. 

Now phantom Vultures hover there 
Since rests the pall o'er Beauty cold. 

"Gone? gone! oh clouds of mystery! 

Could but the mind dispel this gloom — 
Bear answer back from destiny — 

To let me know the coming doom ! 

"Dark phantom clouds o'erpass my mind, 
I grope in darkness; — death's dejection. 

I linger yet a while behind. 

To meet one last, one ghastly question : 

"Is't better in the sight of Him, 

Who leaves me on this stranger-sphere, 

To battle on 'gainst tortures grim 
Or follow all I lived for here ? 

"Death, I have looked on thee in thy 
Pale beauty as some fearful dream; 

At last, thy mission o'er my 

Soul as sacred lights now gleam. 

"I seek her in that realm afar. 

Where grief is lost — where love is not; 

102 



Fair port beyond Life's harbor bar 

Where time's unknown and death's forgot. 

"Yet Shadows seem to come and go, 

As if of woeful doom to tell ; — 
Can it be true, strange warnings flow 

In thought that breathe the word farewell ? 

"Is this the last of life, and may 

We die the death of flowers, whose breath 

Wings on the autumn winds to-day 
And are no more than dust in death ? 

"Go ! 'evil Foes in robes of Sorrow' ! 

Levana hath no power with me. 
I die — I sleep — until the morrow. 

Dawns Beauty's fields? — perchanc't may be. 

"This knife may bring unearthly joy; — 
'Tis sharp and gold enameled o'er, — 

'Twas given to a father's boy. 

And now, my useless heart, — no more!" 

Across the moonlight, through the shade. 

Swift as the lightning's dart. 
Bright gleams the dagger's trembling blade — 

Now through the mad-man's heart. 

One weird cry on the lonely night. 

One mournful, ghastly muffled breath, 

Fortell the Soul's last distant flight — 
Her coldly calm disdain of death. 

The moon sinks 'neath the ocean dome, 
While gloom enrobes the midnight scene; 

Where Silence reigns around that home 
Most horribly serene. 

103 



But look ! 'bove yonder tow'ring peaks 
Behold the darkness cleft in twain. 

Again the fleet-winged lightning streaks 

Through the black midnight's clouded train. 

The elements in fiendish rage 

Sweep far and near earth, sea and air, 

Till roseate beams of dawn assuage 
The wrath and grief that hover there. 

O Sea ! how rapt in transport wild, 

We've held converse through even's shade; 

And learned of those who loved and smiled 
Ere hand of Fate on all was laid. 

O, Fanc_y hast unrobed old Time, 

To gain his long-lost memory? 
We leave thee on thy height sublime — 

Farewell thy wondrous majesty! 

Nor do we ask if in the wave 

Elysian, w^hose beacons beam 
To guide us all, in peace there lave 

The souls who fashioned thy sad dream. 

Far from the carnal things of earth. 
Where Eros high is King of Love; 

The broken band of life's short girth 
O'er-clouds not Beauty there above. 

Thirst-dying pilgrims of the plain, 
Beholding phantom cities' spires ; 

Thy souls can know no keener pain 
Than his who wrestles passion's fires! 

Oft sweetest flowers, in fragrant youth, 
Smile by the fertile brooklet-side ; 

104 



Then waters flow in Nature's truth 
And flowers are swept within the tide. 

The mind, struck by too great a blow, 
Unloosed the captive soul from earth. 

That final Court where she must go 
Will grant pure Psyche a new btrth. 

Now, foaming seas wash the lone shore, 
Where dance the worlds on duty sped • 

Great ocean moans her solemn roar — 
Fit anthems for the youthful dead. 

And still the moon drifts on as ever, 
Above that lone and fated spot, 

Where summer's sun and wintry weather 
Reign o'er the ruins, long forgot. 

And now, O God, that all may dwell, 
^In peace on some far, happier star; 

Where pain and death and passion's swell 
Their glorious love can never mar. 



THREE THINGS 

The rolling ages fail to bring 

The long-sought w^aters of Life's spring. 

The human mind must baflBed be 

Life's future be vague mystery. 

Let Faith and Hope plume Fancy's wing 
In dreams of immortality; — 
And three things here we may hold dear- 
Earth's fevered dream while passing through 
Three things sublime must outlast Time:" 
The Beautiful, the Noble and the True. 

105 



Creeds come and go like winter's snow — 

Like transient clouds of blue; 
My faith fast clings to three fair things — 

The Beautiful, the Noble and the True. 

May glad days bloom before us, 

And ne'er a cloud drift o'er us 
Unpierced by radiant sunlight through — 

And the "moon never beam without bearing a 
dream" 
Of the Beautiful, the Noble and the True. 



WHERE IS SHE? 

Is there a lonely heart that throbs for me ? 
Where is the heart to-night that beats for me ? 
Is there affinity in this strange world ? 
My reader kind, have you found in this vale 
The one that heart and brain proclaim your mate ? 

Does Nature sanction compromise of all 
Our ideals in this waiting, wondrous world ? 
Is this the curse of Eden that was left 
Mankind ? — to feel that somewhere in the world 
Our perfect mates are in the bloom of life. 
But, as we walk life's highway to the grave. 
We view them not? Irrevocable fate! 

'Tis Nature's law that all must crave to find 

The perfect idol of each human heart. 

For such we feel we all were born, oh where 

Are they? How sad — how strange that Fate, whose 

name 
Could well be Death, withholds from humankind 
The boon supreme that could forever make 
Our journey to the grave a dream of bliss I 

1 06 



O, where art thou tonight, my unknown love — 
Whose image fate has stamped within the brain? 

dearest one, my heart beats but for thee! 
The night-winds at my lattice tell of thee — 
Thy glorious voice at midnight speaks to me — 
The rustling of thy gown is in my ear — 
When all the world save thee and me seem dead. 
Thy footfalls on the stair with nightly dreams 
Approach my chamber when the city sleeps — 
Perfect of grace and beauty is thy step — 
Bewitching as the fairies in my dream — 

And, as thy vision fair draws unto me. 
With smile as pure as lilies' blush to dawn. 
And thy low voice, sweet as far vesper bells — 
As pure as chimes of old cathedral bells — 
Tells me of love, then love seems all of life. 
No pencil e'er could paint thy glorious folds 
Of midnight hair, nor those "twin stars of Leda" 
That reveal the sombre sea's blue depth in 
Peace, and the calm beauty of far heaven's 
Great dome by night, and yet, whose shadows hold 
As emblem of the mighty master mind 
A picture of the free, unbridled spirit 
Of the surging seas in storm. No tints of 
Sea or sky or rainbow fair could be a 
Rival of that lustrous light those orbs do 
Show — those sombre eyes — those wondrous win- 
dows — 
Of that grandest soul's fair earthly palace. 
No smile of flower is purer than that brow. 
No power in life or death could move this heart 
As could thy holy blush of first love's birth. 

O, where art thou to-night, my unknown love — 
Whose image Fate has stamped within the brain ? 

1 feel my thoughts are with thine e'en to-night ; 



107 



Our thoughts wath thousand times the fleet dove's 

speed, 
That know not bounds of continents and seas — 
And }/et, for thee and me for Earth 'tis not enough. 
How hopeless seems the chance that we may meet! 
How wildly strange that our paths may not cross! 

Oh, can it be that in the Unknown Land, 
Grirn Fate shall foully still keep her from me ? 
Oh where's my own, my unknown love to-night ! 
O million numbered aw^ful hosts long gone, 
How are thy souls paired in that Stranger-land ? 
Oh where's my own, my unknown love to-night! 



[o8 



HONEYMOONING 

''For weal or woe" had calmly said 

The sombre man of God. 
Life's drearj^ hours for two were dead — 

Hope's flowers sprang from Earth's sod. 

Soon, moonlit fields and village lights 

Are flying from the west, 
As swiftly speed two hearts, new-born, 

To home and love and rest. 

The radiant maid knows joy supreme — 

Love lights her wondrous eye; 
They pledge for every rail they pass 

A kiss for every tie! 

The world, that seemed so long quite dead, 

Has come to life anew; — 
New faith recalls the beautiful, 

The noble and the true. 



109 



